L 1 B RARY OF THE UN IVER.S1TY or ILLINOIS S23 WGQZh .1 Return this book on or before the Latest Date stamped below. A charge is made on all overdue Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2010 with funding from University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign http://www.archive.org/details/wilsonshistorica01wils ILLUSTRATED FAMILY EDITION. AV I L S O N'S TALES OF THE BORDERS [HE Tales of the Borders, Historical, Traditionary, and Im- aginative, has long- held an important place in the literature of Scotland. The narratives of heroism, tales of adven- ture, legends of romance, and historical reminiscences of our country which fill its pages have met the desire for reading not only of an interesting and instructive but of an entertaining character, suitable alike for old and young. The cordial welcome which it has, I moreover, received from all classes of the community during a long succession of years is the best evidence of the appreciation in which "The Tales of the Borders" is held. Encouraged by the favourable reception of previous editions of this well-known work, the publisher has resolved to issue a new and greatly improved edition, with an Illustrative Glossary of the Scottish Dialect ; and in order to render it superior to any hitherto published, it will be illustrated by a Series of Superb Engravings, from drawings specially prepared for this edition. In addition to which there has been produced, for this edition of "The Tales of THE Borders," a LIFE-SIZE PORTRAIT OF HUGH MILLER, who enriched the pages of this work by numerous contributions, and whose well-knoAvn scientific researches and literary ability have won for him a distinguished place in the history of his country. Believing that such a life-like portrait, executed in the highest style of art, will meet with general acceptance, the publisher has arranged that every Subscriber to this Illustrated Edition of " The Tales of the Borders" will receive a copy of the Portrait on their completing ithe work, which will be finished in Thirty Parts, price One Shilling each, each containing One Page Engraving and Eighty-four Pages of Letterpress ; or, in Fifteen Parts, price Two Shillings each ; also, in Six Vols., cloth elegant, gilt edges, price Seven Shillings and Sixpence each. AYILLIAM MACKENZIE: LONDON, GLASGOW, & EDINBLTRGH. i Jks ^^rnrnr ^fiiU '«Wj^ THE VACANT CHAIR. wni I P A-A-A-A-A-AtA-^A-^-A^tA-^ .\fe?- ~.\, .-ArA-^-A-A.:A^-A3AQ^-A^-A,-AnAcA^iAo4nA^^-AA-AjAAA--ArA-ArATA.-;A-Ari^-.r ) i ^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^i^^iww((£Mi^^^!!wl^^^i~^^l^i^^^^l^^^^^^^^^^^^ niniiiniii:uii:,,:;i:ii:!i:i:i[iiii, .; :i:MiK,;;ii:.:,ii.,ii,i,ii,iiiiiLii IWTOlHWiiilililiil lU^S^O O^ !7^^ 7;:. c~-— ^ D 'Di'fiq/^B^ 2^ J^^^^^ WBLLMM IL'DI 1 is^ I 4; ^a.'tjfa A u O M, SEff-^^$S?J^S-y • •_• • • ■ • • ■ a ■ •••••••• t I 11.- Uhnui inii^fehiiSTT «f »ty»«o»s W I L S O N'S HISTORICAL, TRADITIONARY. AND IMAGINATIVE in TALES OF THE BORDERS AND OF SCOTLAND; WITH AN IIuBlratitii? iluBsitr^ nl lip ^rctlb^ ^inlBrl VOL. I LONDON: WILLIAM MACKENZIE, 69 LUDGATE HILL. E.G.; GLASGOW AND EDINBUKGH. 1^^^ a y.i N D E X. VOL. I . Adopted Suu, The; a Tale of the Timee of the Covenanters, 57 Arcliy Armstrong 41 Bill Stanley ; or, a Sailor's Story, .... 305 Bride, The, 113 Broken Heart, The ; a Tale of the Rebellion, . . 10'2 Chase, The ; a Passage from the History of the Rebellion, 413 Coldingham Abbey ; or the Double Revenge, . . 393 Covenanting Family, 249 Cripple, The ; or, Ebenczer the Disowned, . . .97 Death of the Chevalier de la Beauts, ... 47 Deserted Wife, 237 Dominie's Class, The, 129 Doom of Soulis, The, 137 Diigald Gleu, Story of, 397 Edmund and Helen ; a Metrical Tale, . . . 337 Faa's Revenge; a Tale of the Border Gipsies, . . 161 Fair, The, ......... 38 Festival, The, 297 First and Second Marriage, 201 First Foot, The 65 Fugitive, The, 265 Grizel Cochrane, 15 Guidwife of Coldingham ; or. The Surprise ot Fast Castle, 209 Hen-Pecked Man, The, 116 Hermit of the Hills, The 367 Heroine, The, 401 I Cauua be Fashed! or, Willie Grant's Confessions, . 149 Irish Reaper, The, 335 Johnny Brotherstou's Five Sunny Days, . . . 365 Judith the Egyptian ; or, the Fate of the Heir of Riccon, 233 Laidley Worm of Spindlcatou Heugh, The, . . . 361 Launceiot Errington and his Nephew Mark, Adventures of; a Tale of Lindisferne, 217 Leaves from the Diary of an Aged Spinster, . . 214 Leaves from the Life of Alexander Hamilton, , . 273 Leveller, The, 105 Lottery Hall, 89 Midside Maggy ; or, the Bannock o' Tollishill, . . 185 Minister's Daughter, The, 369 My Black Coat ; or, The Breaking of the Bride's China, 7 Mysterious Exchange, 407 01(1 Tar's Yarn, An, 46 One-Armed Tar, The, 141 Order of the Garter ; a Story of Wark Castle, . . 70 Orphan, The, 33 Persecuted Electur, The ; or, Passages from the Life of Simon Gourlay, ....... 73 Perseverance ; or, the Autobiography of Roderic Gray, 329 Poacher's Progress, The, 145 Polwarth on the Green, ...... 301 Poor Scholar, The, Ifr3 Procrastinator, The, 49 Prodigal Son, 25 Recollections of a Village Patriarch, . . . 313 Red Hall, The ; or, Berwick in 1296, . . . . IJ Reuben Purves ; or, The Speculator, . . . 177 Roger Goldie's Narrative ; a Tale of the False Alarm, . 345 Royal Bridal ; or. The King may come in the Cadger's Way, 153 Sabbath Wrecks, The ; a Legend of Dunbar, . . 190 Sayings and Doings of Peter Paterson, . . .17 Seeker, The, 81 Siege, The ; a Dramatic Tale, 83 Simple Man, The, is the Beggar's Brother, . . 243 Sir Patrick Hume ; a Tale of the House of Marchmont, 29 Sisters, The ; a Tale for the Ladies, ... 63 Soldier's Return, . . . . . . .12 SoUtary of the Cave, The, 109 Smuggler, The, 121 Squire Ben, ........ 34 Tibby Fowler, 5 Trials and Triumphs 353 Twin Erotherh, 225 Unbidden Ouest, The ; or, Jedburgh's Regal Festival, 241 Unknown, The 257 Ups and Downs ; or, David Stewart's Account of his Pilgrimage, ........ 51 Vacant Chair, The, 1 We'll Have Another, 9 Whitsorae Tragedy, The, 321 Widow's Ae Son, The, 45 Wife or the Wuddy 281 Willie WasUe's Account of Lis Wife, . . . .289 697173 WILSON'S lEjislon'cnl, 'CTintiitionnrp, anij Imnginatibc TALES OF THE BORDERS, AND OF SCOTLAND. THE VACANT CHAIR. You have all lieard of the Cheviot mountains. If you have not, they are a rough, rugged, majestic chain of hills which a poet might term the Koman wall of nature ; crowned with snow, belted with storms, surrounded by pastures and fruitful fields, and still dividing the northern portion of Great Britain from the southern. VTith their proud sum- mits piercing the clouds, and their dark rocky declivities frowning upon the glons below, they appear symbolical of the wild and untamcable spirits of the Borderers who once inhabited their sides. We say, you have all heard of the Cheviots, and know them to be very high hills, like a huge clasp riveting England and Scotland together ; but we are not aware that you may have heard of Marchlaw, an old, grey-looking farm-house, substantial as a modern fortress, recently, and, for aught we know to the contrary, still inha- bited by Peter Elliot, the proprietor of some five hundred surrounding acres. The boundaries of Peter's farm, indeed, were defined neither by fields, hedges, nor stone walls. A wooden stake here and a stone there, at considerable dis- tances from each other, were the general landmarks ; but neither Peter nor his neighbours considered a few acres worth quarrelling about ; and their sheep frequently visited each other's pastures in a friendly way, harmoniously shar- ing a family dinner, in the same spirit as their masters made themselves free at each other's tables. Peter was placed in very unpleasant circumstances, owing to the situation of Marchlaw House, which, unfortunately, was built immediately across the "ideal line" dividing the two kingdoms ; and his misfortune was, that, being born within it, he knew not whether he was an Englishman or a Scotchman. lie could trace his ancestral line no farther back than his great-grandfather, who, it appeared from the family Bible, had, together with his grandfather and father, claimed Marchlaw as their birth-place. They, however, were not involved in the same perplexities as their descen- dant. The parlour was distinctly acknowledged to be in Scot- land, and two-thirds of the kitchen were as certainly allowed to be in England : his three ancestors were born in the room over the parlour, and, therefore, were Scotchmen beyond question ; but Peter, unluckily, being brought into the world before the death of his grandfather, his parents occupied a room immediately over the debateable boundary line which crossed the kitchen. The room, though scarcely eight feet square, was evidently situated between the two countries ; but no one being able to ascertain what portion belonged to each, Peter, after many arguments and altercations upon the subject, was driven to the disagreeable alternative of confess- ing he knew not what countryman he was. What rendered the confession the more painful was, it was Peter's highest ambition to be thought a Scotchman. All his arable land l.iy 1. Vol. I. on the Scotch side; his mother was collaterally related to the Stuarts : and lew families were more ancient or respect- able than the Elliots. Peter's speech, indeed, bewrayed him to be a walking partition between the two kingdoms, a living representation of the Union; for in one word he pronounced the letter r with the broad masculine sound of the North Briton, and in the next with the liquid burr of the Northumbrians. Peter, or, if you prefer it, Peter Elliot, Esquire, of March- law, in the counties of Northumberland and Ro.xburgh, was for many years the best runner, ler.per, and wrestler between Wooler and Jedburgh. Whirled from his hand, the pon- derous bullet whizzed through the air like a pigeon on the wing ; and the best putter on the Borders quailed from com- petition. As a feather in his grasp, he seized the unweildy hammer, swept it round and round his head, accompanying with agile limb its evolutions, swiftly as swallows play around a circle, and hurled it from his hands like a shot from a rifle, till antagonists shrank back, and the spectators burst into a shout. " Well done. Squire ! the Squire for ever!" once exclaimed a servile observer of titles. "Squire! wha are ye squiring at?" returned Peter. " Confound ye ! where was ye when I was christened Squire ? My name's Peter Elliot — your man, or onybody's man, at whatever they like!" Peter's soul was free, bounding, and buoyant, as the wind that carolled in a zephyr, or shouted in a hurricane, upon his native hills; and his body was thirteen stone of healthy, substantial flesh, steeped in the spirits of life. He had been long married, but marriage had wrought no change upon hira. They who suppose that wedlock transforms the lark into an owl, olTer an insult to the lovely beings who, bright- ening our darkest hours with the smiles of affection, teach us that that only is unbecoming in the husband which is disgraceful in the man. Nearly twenty years had passed over them ; but Janet was still as kind, and, in his eyes, as beautiful, as when, bestowing on him her hand, she blushed her vows at the altar ; and he was still as happy, as generous, and as free. Nine fair children sat around their domestic hearth, and one, the youngling of the flock, smiled upon its mother's knee. Peter had never known sorrow ; he was blest in his wife, in his children, in his flocks. He had become richer than his fathers. He was beloved by his neighbours, the tillers of his ground, and his herdsmen;- yea, no man envied his prosperity. But a blight passed over the h.irvest of his joys, and gall was rained into the cup of his felicity. It was Christmas-day; and a more melancholy-looking sun never rose on the 25th of December. One vast, s.ible cloud, like a universal pall, overspread the heavens. For weeks the ground had been covered with clear, d.azzling snow; and as throughout the day, the rain continued iu unwearied and monotonous drizzle, the earth assumed a TALES OF THE BORDERS character and appearance melancholy and troubled as the heavens. Like a mastiff that has lost its owner, the wind howled dolefully down the glens, and was re-echoed from the caves of the mountains, as the lamentations of a legion of invisible spirits. The frowning, snow-clad precipices were instinct with motion, as avalanche upon avalanche, the larger burving the loss, crowded downward in their tremendous journey to the plain. The simple mountain I ills had assumed the majesty of rivers ; the broader streams were swoUen into the wild torrent, and, gushing forth as cataracts, in fury and in foam, enveloped tlie valleys iu an angry flood. But, at Jlarchlaw, the fire blazed blithely ; the kitchen groaned beneath the load of preparations for a joyful feast ; and glad faces glided from room to room. Peter Elliot kept Christmas, not so much because it was Christmas, as in honour of its being the birthday of Thomas, ins first-born, who, that day, entered his nineteenth year. With a father's love, his heart yearned for all his children; but Thomas was the pride of his eyes. Cards of apology had not then found their way among our Border hiUs ; aud, as all knew that, although Peter admitted no spirits within his threshold, nor a drunkard at his table, he was, never- theless, no niggard in his hospitality, his invitations were accepted without ceremony. The guests were assembled; and the kitchen being the only apartment in the building large enough to contain them, the cloth was spread upon a long, clear, oaken table, stretching from England into Scot- land. On the English end of the board were placed a pon- derous plum-pudding, studded with temptation, and a smok- ing sirloin; on Scotland, a savoury and well-seasoned haggis, with a sheep's-head and trotters ; while the intermediate space was filled with the good things of this life, common to both kingdoms and to the season. The guests from the north, and from the south, were arranged promiscuously. Every seat was filled — save one. The chair by Peter's right hand remained unoccupied. He had raised his hands before his eyes, and besought a blessing on what was placed before them, and was preparing to carve for his visiters, when his eyes fell upon the vacant chair. The knife dropped upon the table. Anxiety flashed across his countenance, like an arrow from an unseen hand. " Janet, where is Thomas?" he inquired; " hae nane o' ye seen him ?" and, without waiting an answer, he con- tinued — " How is it possible he can be absent at a time like this.'' And on such a day, too? Excuse me a minute, friends, till I just step out and see if I can find him. Since ever I kept this day, as mony o' ye ken, he has always been at my right hand, in that very chair ; and I canna think o' begin- ning our dinner while I see it empty." " If the filling of the chair be all," said a pert young sheep-farmer, named Johnson, " I will step into it till blas- ter Thomas arrive." " Ye're not a faither, young man," said Peter, and walked out of the room. Minute succeeded minute, but Peter returned not. The guests became hungry, peevish, and gloomy, while an excel- lent dinner continued spoiling before them. Mrs Elliot, whose good-nature was the most prominent feature in her character, strove, by every possible eflfort, to beguile the unpleasant impressions she perceived gathering upon their countenances. " Peter is just as bad as him," she remarked, " to hae gane to seek him when he kenned the dinner wouldna keep. And I'm sure Thomas kenned it %vould be ready at one o'clock to a minute. It's sae unthinking and unfriendly like to keep folk waiting." And, endeavouring to smile upon a beautiful black-haired girl of seventeen, who sat by Ler elbow, she continued, in an anxious whisper — " Did ye see naething o' him, Elizabeth, hinny f " The maiden blushed deeply ; the question evidently gave freedom to a tear, wliich had, for some time, been an unwill- I ing prisoner in the brightest eyes in the room ; and the monosyllable, " No," that trembled from her lips, wag audible only to the ear of the inquirer. In vain Jlrs Elliot despatched one of her children after another, in quest of their father and brother ; they came and went, but brouglit no tidings more cheering than the moaning of the hollow wind. Jlinutes rolled into hours, yet neither came. She perceived the prouder of her guests preparing to withdraw, and, observing that " Thomas's absence was so singular and unaccountable, and so unlike either him or his faither, she didna ken what apology to make to her friends for such treatment ; but it was needless waiting, and begged thty would use no ceremony, but just begin." No second invitation was necessary. Good humonr ap- peared to be restored, and sirloins, pies, pasties, and moor- fowl, began to disappear like the lost son. For a moment, Jlrs Elliot apparently partook in the restoration of cheer- fulness ; but a low sigh at her elbo\v again drove the colour from her rosy cheeks. Her eye wandered to the farther end of the table, and rested on the unoccu])ied seat of her hus- band, and the vacant chair of her first-born. Her heart fel^ heavily within her ; all the mother gushed into her bosom ; and, rising from the table, " What in the world can be the meaning o' this?" said she, as she hurried, with a troubled countenance, towards the door. Her husband met her on the threshold. " Where hae ye been, Peter ?" said she, eagerly ; " hae ye seen naething o' him ?" " Naething ! naething !" replied he ; " is he no cast up yet ?" And, with a melancholy glance, his eyes sought an answer in the deserted chair. His lips quivered, his tongue faltered. " Gude forgle me !" said he ; " and such a day for even an enemy to be out in ! I've been up and doun every wav that I can tliink on, but not a living creature has seen or heard tell o' him. Ye'll excuse me, neebors," he added, leaving the house ; " I must awa again, for I canna rest." " I ken by mysel', friends," said Adam Bell, a decent- looking Northumbrian, " that a iaither's heart is as sensi- tive as the apple o' his e'e ; and, I think we would shew a want o' natural sympathy and respect for our worthy neigh- bour, if we didna every one get his foot into the stirrup, without loss o' time, and assist him in his search. For, in my rough, country way o' thinking, it must be something particularly out o' the common that could tempt Thomas to be amissing. Indeed, I needna say tempt, for there could be no inclination in the way. And our hills," he concluded, in a lower tone, " are not ower chancy in other respects, besides the breaking up o' the storm." " Oh!" said Mrs Elliot, wringing her hands, " I have had the coming o' this about me for days and days. Aly head was growing dizzy with happiness, but thoughts came stealing upon me like ghosts, and I felt a lonely sougliing about my heart, without being able to tell the cause; but the cause is come at last ! And my dear Thomas — the very • pride and staff o' my life — is lost ! — lost to me for ever !" " I ken, Mrs Elliot," replied the Northumbrian, " it is an easy matter to say compose yourself, for them that dinna ken what it is to feel. But, at the same time, in our plain, country way o' tliinking, we are always ready to believe the ' worst. I've often heard my faither say, and I've as often remarked it myself, that, before anything happens to a body, there is a somclhiiig conies owre them, like a cloud before tie face o' the sun ; a sort o' dumb whispering about the breast from the other world. And, though I trust there is naething o' the kind in your case, vet, as you observe, when 1 find myself growing dizzy, as it were, with happiness, it makes good a saying o' my mother's, poor body ! ' Bairns, bairns,' she used to say, ' there is owre muckle singing in your heads to-night; we will have a shower before bed- time.' And I never, in my born days, saw it fail." TALES OF THE BORDERS. At any otlioj period, Mr Bell's dissertation on prosenti. ments ^^■oul(l have been found a fitting text on which to Lang all the dreams, wraiths, warnings, and marvellous cir- cumstances, that had been handed down to the company from th* days of their grandfatliers; but, in the present instance, they were too much occupied in consultation regarding the different routes to be taken in their search. Twelve horsemen, and some half-dozen pedestrians, were seen hurrying in divers directions from Marchlaw, as the last faint lights of a melancholy day were yielding to tlie heavy darki;ess which appearei pressing in solid masses down the sides of the mountains. The wives and daughters of the party were alone left with the disconsolate mother, who alternately pressed her weeping children to her heart, and told them to weep not, for their brother would soon return ; while the tears stole down her own cheeks, and the infant in her arms wept because its mother wept. Her friends strove with each other to inspire hope, and poured upon her ear their mingled and loquacious consolation. But one remained silent. The daughter of Adam Bell, who sat ,.by Mrs Elliot's elbow at table, had shrunk into an obscure corner of the room. Before her face she held a handker- chief wet with tears. Her bosom throbbed convulsively; and, as occasionally her broken sighs burst from their prison-house, a significant whisper passed among the younger part of the company. ^ Mrs Elliot approached her, and taking her hand tenderly within both of hers — " O hinny ! hinny !" said she, " yer »ighs gae through my heart like a knife ! An' what can 1 do to comfort ye? Come, Elizabeth, my bonny love, let us hope for the best. Ye see before ye a sorrowin' mother! — a mother that fondly hoped to see you an' — I canna say it! — an' am ill qualified to gie comfort, when my own heart is like a furnace! But, oh! let us try and remember the blessed portion, ' Whom the Lord loveth 11k chasteneth," an' inwardly pray for strength to say, * His will be done!'" Time stole on towards midnight, and one by one the un- successful party returned. As foot after foot approached, every breath was held to listen. " No, no, no !" cried the mother, again and again, with increasing anguish, " it's no the foot o' my ain bairn;" while her keen gaze still re- mained riveted upon the door, and was not withdrawn, nor the hope of despair relinquished, till the individual entered, and, with a silent and ominous shake of his head, betokened his fruitless efforts. The clock had struck twelve; all were returned save the father. The wind howled more wildly; the rain poured upon the windows in cease- less torrents; and the roaring of the mountain rivers gave a character of deeper ghostliness to their sepulchral silence; for they sat, each rapt in forebodings, listening to the storm} and no sounds were heard, save the groans of the mother, ^ the weeping of her children, and the bitter and broken sobs . if the bereaved maiden, who leaned her head upon her father's bosom, refusing to be comforted. At length, the barking of the farm-dog announced foot- steps at a distance. Every ear was raised to listen, every ev'e turned to the door; but, before the tread was yet audi- ble to the listeners — " Oh, it is only Peter's foot!" said the miserable mother, and, weeping, arose to meet him. " Janet! Janet!" he exclaimed, as he entered, and threw his arma around hei neck, " what's this come ujion us at last?' He cast an inquisitive glance around his dwelling, and a convulsive shiver passed over bis manly frame, as his eye again fell on the vacant chair, which no one had ventured to occupy. Hour succeeded hour, but the company sepa- rated not; and low, sorrowful whispers mingled with the lamentations of the parents. " Neighbours," said Adam Bell, " tne morn is a new day, and we wiU wait to see what it may bring forth; but, in the meantime, let us read a portion o' the Divine :'."pr'1 nn kneel together in prayer, that, whether or not the day-dawu cause light to shine upon this singular bereavement, the Sun o' Bightcousncss may arise wi' healing on his wings, upon the hearts o' this alllictcd family, an' upon the hearts o' all present." " Amen!" responded Peter, wringing his hands; and his friend, taking down the Ha' Biljle, read the chapter wherein it is written — " It is better to be in the house of mourning than in the house of feasting;" and again the portion which sayeth — " It is well for me that I have been alllictcd, for before I was alllicted, I went astray." The morning came, but brought no tidings of the lost son. After a solemn farewell, al! the visitants, save Adam Bell and his daughter, returned every one to their own house; and the disconsolate father, with his servants, again renewed their search among the liills and surrounding vil- lages. Days, weeks, months, and years, rolled on. Time Iiad subdued the anguish of the parents into a holy calm ; but their lost first-born was not forgotten, although no trace of his fate had been discovered. The general belief was, that he had perished on the breaking up of the snow; and tho few in whose remembrance he still lived, merely spoke of his death as a " very extraordinary circumstance," remark- ing that " he was a wild, venturesome sort o lad." Christmas had succeeded Christmas, and Peter Elliot still kept it in commemoration of the birthday of him who was not. For the first few years after the loss of their son, sadness and silence characterised the party who sat down to dinner at Jlarchlaw, and still at Peter's right hand ^as placed the vacant chair. But, as the younger branches of the family advanced in years, the remembrance of their brother became less poignant. Christmas was, with all around them, a day of rejoicing, and they began to make merry with their friends; while their parents partook in their enjoyment, with a smile, half of approval and half of sorrow. Twelve years had passed away; Christmas had again come. It was the counterpart of its fatal predecessor. The hills had not yet cast off their summer verdure; the sun, although shorn of its heat, had lost none of its brightness or glory, and looked down upon the earth as though participat- ing in its gladness; and the clear blue sky was tranquil as the sea sleeping beneath the moon. Many visiters had again assembled at Slarchlaw. The sons of Mr Elliot, and the young men of the party, were assembled upon a level green near the house, amusing themselves with throwing the hammer and other Border games, while himself and the elder guests stood by as spectators, recounting the deeds of their youth. Johnson, the sheep farmer, whom we have already mentioned, now a brawny and gigantic fellow of two-and-thirty, bore a^^ay in every game the palm from all competitors. More than once, as Peter beheld his sons defeated, he felt the spirit of youth glowing in his veins, and, " Oh!" muttered he, in bitterness, " had mv Thomas been spared to me, he would hae thrown his heart's bluid after the hammer, before he would hae been beat by e'er a Johnson in the country !" "While he thus soliloquized, and ^vith difficulty restrained an impulse to compete with the victor himself, a dark, foreign-looking, strong-built seaman, unceremoniously ap- proached, and, with his arms folded, cast a look of contempt upon the boasting conqueror. Every eye was turned with a scrutinizing glance upon the stranger. In height he could not exceed live feet nine, but his whole frame was the model of muscular strength; his features were open and manly, but deeply sunburnt and weather-beaten; his long, glossy, black hair, curled into ringlets by the breeze and the billow, fell thickly over his temples and forehead; and whiskers of a similar hue, more conspicuous for size than TALES OF THE BOEDERS. elegance, gave a character of fierceness to a countenance otherwise possessing a striking impress of manly beauty. Without asking permission, he stepped forward, lifted the hammer) and, swinging it around his head, hurled it upwards of fire yards beyond Johnson's most successful throw. ■' Well done !" shouted the astonished spectators. The heart of Peter Elliot warmed within him, and he was hurrying forward to grasp the stranger by the hand, when the words rroaned in his throat, " It was just such a throw as my Thomas would have made ! — my own lost Thomas !" The tears burst into his eyes, and, without speaking, he turned back, and hunied towards the house, to conceal his emotion. Successively, at every game, the stranger had defeated all who ventured to oppose him ; when a messenger announced that dinner waited their amval. Some of the guests were already seated, others entering ; and, as heretofore, placed beside Mrs Elliot, was Elizabeth Bell, still in the noontide of her beauty ; but soitow had passed over her features, like a veil before the countenance of an angel. Johnson, crest- fallen and out of humour at his defeat, seated himself by her side. In early life, he had regarded Thomas Elliot as a rival for her affections ; and, stimulated by the knowledge that Adam Bell would be able to bestow several thousands upon his daughter for a do^vry, he yet prosecuted his atten- tions with unabated assiduity, in despite of the daughter's aversion and the coldness of her father. Peter had taken his place at the table ; and still by his side, unoccupied and sacred, appeared the vacant chair, the chair of his first-bom, whereon none had sat since his mysterious death or disap- pearance. " Bairns," said he, " did nane o' ye ask the sailor to come up and tak a bit o' dinner wi' us ?" " We were afiaid it might lead to a quarrel with Mr Johnson," whispered one of the sons. " He is come without asking," replied the stranger, en- tering ; " and the wind shall blow from a new point if I destroy the mirth or happiness of the company." " Ye're a stranger, young man," sjiid Peter '• or ye would ken this is no a meeting o' mirth-makers. But, I assure ye, ye are welcome, heartily welcome. Haste ye, lassies," he added to the servants ; " some o' ye get a chair for the gen- tleman." " Gentleman, indeed 1" muttered Johnson between iis teeth. " Never mind about a chair, my hearties," said the sea- man ; " this wiU do !" And, before Peter could speak to witldiold him, he had thrown himself carelessly into the hallowed, the venerated, the twelve-years-unoccupied chair! The spirit of sacrilege uttering blasphemies from a pulpit could not have smitten a congregation of pious worshippers with deeper hoiTor and consternation, than did this filling of the vacant chair the inhabitants of Slarchlaw. " Excuse me. Sir ! excuse me. Sir !" said Peter, the words trembling upon his tongue ; " but ye cannot — ye cannot sit tJiere !" "O man! man!" cried Mrs Elliot, "get out o that! get out o' that ! — take my chair ! — take ony chair i' the house ! — but dinna, dinna sit there ! It has never been sat in by mortal being since the death o' my dear bairn I — and to see it filled by another is a thing I canna endure !" " Sir ! Sir !" continued the father, " ye have done it through ignorance, and we excuse ye. But that was my 1 homas's seat ! Twelve years this very day — his birthday — he perished. Heaven kens how ! He went out from our sight, like the cloud that passes over the hills — never — never to return. And, Bir, spare a faither's feelings ! for to see it filled wrings the blood from my heart I" " Give me your hand, my worthy soul !" exclaimed tne seaman ; " I revere — nay, hang it ! I would die for your feel- ings ; But 'i'oiii VM'ioi ^\as my friend, and I cast anchor in this chair oy special commission. I know that a sudden broadside of joy is a bad thing ; but, as [ don't know how to preach a sermon before telling you, ail I have to say is — that Tom an't dead." " Not dead ! said Peter, grasping the hand of the stran- ger, and speaking with an eagerness that almost choked his utterance ; " O Sir ! Sir ! tell me how ! — how ! — Did ye say, living ? — Is my ain Thomas living ?" " Not dead, do ye say ?" cried Mrs Elliot, hurrying to- wards him and grasping his other hand — " not dead ! And shall I see my bairn again ? Oh ! may the blessing o" Hea- ven, and the blessing o' a broken-hearted mother be upon the bearer o' the gracious tidings ! But tell me — tell me, how is it possible ! As ye would expect happiness here or hereafter, dinna, dinna deceive me !" " Deceive you !" returned the stranger, grasping, with impassioned earnestness, their hands in his — •" Never ! — never ! and all I can say is — Tom Elliot is alive and heartv." " No, no !" said EUzabeth, rising from her seat, " he does not deceive us ; there is that in his countenance which be- speaks a falsehood impossihle." And she also endeavoured to move towards him, when Johnson threw his arm around her to withhold her. " Hands off, you land-lubber !" exclaimed the seaman, springing towards them, " or, sliiver me ! I'U shew daylight through your timbers in the turning of a handspike !" And, clasping the lovely girl in his arms, "Betty! Betty, mv love !" he cried, " don't you know your own Tom ? Father, mother, don't you know me .'' Have you really forgot your own son ? If twelve years have made some change on his face, his heart is sound as ever." His father, his mother, and his brothers, clung around him, weeping, smiling, and mingling a hundred questions together. He threw his arms around the neck of each, and in answer to their inquiries, replied — " M'ell ! well ! there is time enough to answer questions, but not to-day — not to-day !" " No, my Dairn," said his mother, we'll ask you no ques- tions — nobody shall ask ye any ! But how — how were ve torn away from us, my love .'' And, O hinny ! where — where hae ye been ?" " It is a long story, mother," said ho, " and would take a week to tell it. But, howsoever, to make a long story short, you remember when the smugglers were pursued, and wished to conceal their brandy in our house, my father prevented them ; they left muttering revenge — and they have been revenged. This day twelve years, I went out with the intention of meeting Elizabeth and her father, when I came upon a party of the gang concealed in Hell's Hole. In a moment half a dozen pistols were held to m}- breast, and, t}-ing my hands to my sides, they dragged me into the cavem. Here I had not been long their prisoner, when the snow, rolling down the mountains, almost totally blocked up its mouth. On the second night, they cut through the snow, and, hurrying me along with them, I was bound to a horse between two, and, before day-light, found myself stowed like a piece of old junk, in the hold of a smuggling lugger Within a week, I was shipped on board a Dutch man-of-war ; and for six years was kept dogging about on different stations, till our old yawing hulk received orders to join the fleet which was to fight against the gallant Duncan at Camper- down. To think of fighting against my ovm countrymen, my own flesh and blood, was worse than to be cut to pieces by a cat-o'-nine tails ; and, under cover of the smoke of the first broadside, I sprang upon the gui»wale, plunged into the sea, and swam for the English fleet. Never, never shall I forget the moment that my feet first trod upon the deck of a British frigate I My nerves felt as firm as her o;ik, and my heart free as the pennant that waved defiance from her mast- head ! I was as active as any one during the battle ; and, when it w.TS over, and I found myself again among my own country- TALES OF THE BORDERS. im'n and all spoakinij mv own laiicjuage, I f;inciccl — nay, tmr.a it ! I alino.st beliovi'il — I slioiilil mci't my t'atlipr, my inotla'r, or my lioar Hess, on lioanl of the ]5ritisli frii;ati'. I expi'ctt'il to sue you all ajjain in a I'l-vv weeks at faitlii'st ; liut, instead of retnrninj; to Old England liefore I was aware, I fonnd it was lielni abont with us. As to writing, I never had an ojiportnnity but once. We were anchored before a French fort ; a packet was Iving alongside ready to sail ; I had half a side written, and was scratching my head to think how I should come over writing about you, liess, my loye, when, as bad luck would have it, our lieuten- ant conies to me, and says he, ' Elliot,' says he, ' I know you like a little smart seryico : come, my lad, take the head oar, while we board some of those French bum-boats under tin- batteries !' I cShe did n(jt hate them, but she des[)ised their meanness; and, as they one by one gave up persecuting her witli th^ir addresses, tliey consoled themselves with retorting n])on her the words of the adage, that — " her pride would have a fall !" But it was not from pride that she rejected them ; but because her heart was capable of love — of love, pure, levoted, unchangeable, springing from being beloved ; and because her feelings were sensitive as the quivering aspen, which trembles at the rustling of an insect's wing. Amongst her suitors there might have been some who were disinter- ested, but the meanness and sordid objects of many caused her to regard all with suspicion ; and tliere was none among the number to whose voice her bosom responded as the needle turns to the magnet, and frequently from a cause as inexplicable. She had resolved that the man to whom she gave her hand should wed her for herself — and for herself only. Her parents had died in the same month ; and, about a year after their death, she sold the cottage and the piece of ground, and took her journey towards Edinburgh, where the report of her being a " great fortune," as her neighbours termed her, might be unknown. But Tibby, although a sen- sitive girl, was also, in many respects, a prudent one^ Fre- quently she had heard her mother, when she had to take but a shilling from the legacy, quote the proverb — that it was " Like a cow in a clout, That soon wears out.'' Proverbs, we know, are in bad taste, but we quote it, because, by its repetition, the mother produced a deeper impression on her daughter's mind than could have been etfected by a volume of sentiment. Bearing, therefore, in her memory the maxim of her frugal parent, Tibby deposited her money in the only bank, we believe, that was at that period in the Scottish capital, and hired herself as a child's-maid in the family of a gentleman who occupied a house in the neigh- bourhood of Kestalrig. Here the story of her fortune was unknown, and Tibby was distinguished only for a kind heart and a lovely countenance. It was during the summer months , and Leith Links became her daily resort, and there she was wont to walk, with a child in her arms, and another leading by the hand, for there she could wander by the side of the sounding sea, and her heart still glowed for her fathers cottage and its fairy glen, where she had often heard the voice of its deep waters ; and she felt the sensation which, we believe may have been experienced by many who have been born within hearing of old ocean's roar — that, wherever they may be, they hear the murmur of its billows as the voice of a youthful friend ; and she almost fancied, as she approached the sea that she drew nearer the home which sheltered her infancy. She had been but a few weeks in the family we have alluded to, when, returning from her accustomed walk, her eyes met those of a young man habited as a seaman He appeared to be about five-and-twenty, and his features were rather niaidy than handsome. There ■^as a dash of TALES OF THE BORDERS. boldness and confidence in Lis countenance; l)ut. as the eyes of the maiden met his, he turned aside as if abashed, and passed on. Tibby blushed at her foolishness — but slie could not help it, she felt interested in the strangei-. There ^vas an expression — a language — an inquiry in his gaze, she had never witnessed before. She would have turned round to cast a look after him, but she blushed deeper at the thought, and modesty forbade it. She walked on for a few minutes, upbraiding herself for entertaining the silly wish, when the child, who walked by her side, fell a few yards behind. She iumed round to call him by his name — Tiljby was certain that she had no motive but to call the child ; and, though she did steal a sidelong glance towards the spot where she tad passed the stranger, it was a mere accident — it could not be avoided — at least, so the maiden wished to persuade her conscience against her con^nction ; but that glance revealed to her the young sailor, not pursuing the path on which she had met him, but following her within the dis- tance of a few yards ; and, until she reached her master's door she heard the soiuid of his footsteps behind her. She expenenced an emotion between being pleased and offended at his conduct, though, we suspect, the former eventually pre- dominated ; for the next day she was upon the Links as usual, and there also was the young seaman, and again he followed her to within sight of her master's house. How long this sort of dumb love-making, or the pleasures of diffidence, con- tinued, we cannot tell. Certain it is that at length he spoke, wooed, and conquered; and, about a twelvemonth after their first meeting, Tibby Fowler became the wife of William Gordon, the mate of a foreign trader. On the second week after their marriage, William was to sail upon a long, long voyage, and might not be expected to return for more than twelve months. This was a severe trial for poor Tibby, and she felt as if she would not be able to stand up against it. As yet her husband knew nothing of her dowry ; and for this hour she had reserved its discovery. A few days before their marriage she had lifted her money from the b;mk and deposited it in her chest. "No, Willie — my ain Willie," she cried, "ye maunna — ye winna leave me already : ] liave neither faither, mother, brother, nor kindred — naebody but you, Willie — only you in the wide world ; and I am a stranger here, and ye winna leave your Tibby. Say that ye winna, Willie." And she wrung his hand, gazed in his face, and wept. " 1 maun gang, dearest — I maun gang," said Willie, and pressed her to his breast — " but the thocht o' my ain wifie will mak the months chase ane anither like the moon driving shadows owre the sea. There's nae danger in the voyage, hinny — no a grain o' danger — sae dinna greet — but come kiss me, Tibb}-, and, when I come hame, I'll mak ye leddy o' them a'." "0 no, no, Willie!" she replied; "1 want to be nae leddy — 1 want naething but my Willie. Only say that ye'll no gang ; and here's something here — something for yc to look at." And she hurried to her chest, and took from it a large leathern pocketbook that had been her father's, and which contained her treasure, now amounting to somewhat more than six hundred pounds. In a moment she returned to her husband; she threw her arms around his neck ; she thrust the pocketbook into his bosom. " There, Willie — tliere," she exclaimed ; "that is yours — my faither placed it in my hand wi' a l)lessing,and wi' the sai"« blessing I transfer it to you — but dinna, dinna leave me. Thus say- ing, she hurried out of the room. We will not attempt to describe the astonishment — we may s.ay the joy of the fond husband — on opening the pocketbook and finding the unlooked-for dowry However intensely a man may love a woman, there is little chance that her putting an unex]iected portion of six hundred pounds into his hands will diminish his attachment ; nor did it diminish that of William (lordon. Jle relinquished his intention of proceeding on the foreign voyage; and purchased a small coasting 7eoseI, of vrhich he was both owner and commander. I'ive years of unclouded prosperity passed over them, and Tibby had become the mother of three fair children. AVilliam sold his small vessel and purchased a larger one ; and, in fitting it up, all the gains of his five successful years were swallowed up. But trade was good. She was a beautiful brig, and ht had her called the " Tihhy Forvler." lie now took a fond farewell . of his "-ife and little ones, upon a foreign voyage, which was not calculated to exceed four months, and which held out high promise of advantage. But four, eight, twelve months passed away, and there were no tidings of the " Tihbj Fowler." 15ritain was then at war; there were enemies ships and pirates upon the sea, and there had been fierce storms and hurricanes since her husband left ; and Tibby thought of all these things and wept ; and her lisping childxen asked her when their father would return, for he had pro- mised presents to all, and she answered — to-morrow — and to-monow ; and turned from them and wej-.t again. She began to be in want ; and, at first, she received assistance from some of the friends of their prosperity ; but all hope of her husband's return was now abandoned, the ship was not insured, and the mother and her family were reduced to beg- gary. In order to support them, she sold one article of fur- niture after another, until what remained was seized by the landlord in security for his rent. It was then that Tibby and her children, with scarce a blanket to cover them, wers cast friendless upon the streets — to die or to beg. To the last resource she could not yet stoop ; and, from the remnants of former friendship, she was furnished with a basket and a few trifling wares, with which, with her children by her side, she set out, with a broken and a sorrowful heart, wandering from village to village. She had travelled in this manner for some months, when she drew no.ar her native glen ; and the cottage that had been her father's — that had been her own — stood before her. She had tra- velled all the day and sold nothing. Her children were pulling by her tattered gown, weeping and crying — " Bread! — mother, give us bread !" and her o«ii heart was sick with hunger. " Oh, wheesht, my darlings ! wheesht !" she exclaimed, and she fell upon her knees, and threw her arms round the necks of all the three ; " you will get bread soon — the Al- mighty will not permit my bairns to perish — no ! no ! — ye shall have bread." In despair she hurried to the cottage of her birth. The door was opened by one who had been a rejected suitor. He gazed upon her intently for a few seconds — and she was still young, being scarce more than six and twent}', and, in the midst of her wretchedness, yet lovely. " Gudo gracious, Tibby Fowler !" he exclaimed, " is that you? Poor creature, are 3'e seeking charity ? Weel, I think ye'll mind what I s-aid to you, now — that your pride would have a fa' !" While the heartless owner of the cottage yet spoke, a voice behind her was heard exclaiming — " It is her ! — it is her ! — my ain Tibby and her bairns !" At the well-known voice, Tihliy uttered a wild scre.aro of joy, and fell senseless on the earth ; but tlie next moment her husband, William Gordon, raised her to his breast. Three weeks before, he had returned to Britain, and traci-a iiei from village to village, till he found her in the midst of their children, on the threshold of the place of her nativity. His story we nerd not here tell. lie had fallen into the hands of the enemy — he had been retained for months on bo,aid of their vessel — and, when a storm had arisen, and hope was gone, he had saved her from being lost and her crew from perahing. In reward for his services, his own vessel had been restored to him, and he was returned to his country, after ,in pbser.ce of eighteen months, richer th.in when kc left ,ind 1 idcr ^idi honours. 7"he rest is soon TALES OF THE BORDERS. told. Aficr TiUiy una lur Imsliand lia.1 wopt upon each other's neck, and lie had kissed his chihlrcn, and again llieir mother, with his yountjost chihl on one arm, and his wife restinf; on the other, he hastened iVoni the spot that had been the scene of such hittomess and transport. In a few ycai'3 more, U'iliiain (!ordon hanii^ ol)tained a cora- petency, they re-purchiised tiic cottage in tiie glen, where Tibby Fowler lived to see her children's children, and died at a good old age in the house in which she had been bom — tlie remains of which, we have only to add, for the edi- fication of the curious, may be seen until this day. MY BLACK COAT; TIIE BREAKING OF TIIE BRIDE'S CHINA. Gentle reader, the simple circumstances I am about to relate to you, hang upon what is termed — a bad omen. There are few amongst the uneducated who have not a degree of faith in omens; and even amongst the better educated and well informed, there are many who, while they profess to disbelieve them, and, indeed, do disbelieve them, yet feel them in their hours of solitude. I have kno\^Ti individuiJs who, in the hour of danger, would have braved the cannon's mouth, or defied death to his teeth, who, never- theless, would have buried their head in the bedclothes at the howling of a dog at midnight, or spent a sleepless night from hearing the tick, tick, of the spider, or the untiring Kong of the kitchen-fire musician — the jolly little cricket. The age of omens, however, is drawing to a close: for Truth in its progress is trampling delusion of every kind under its feet; yet, after all, though a belief in omens is a super- stition, it is on'> that carries with it a portion of the poetry of our nature Cut to proceed with our story. Several years ago, I was on my way from B to Edin- burgh ; and being as familiar with every cottage, tree, shrub, and whin-bush on the Dunbar and Lauder roads, as with the face of an acquaintance, I made choice of the less frequented path by Longformacus. I always took a secret pleasure in contemplating the dreariness of wild spreading desolation ; and, next to looking on the sea when its waves dance to the music of a hurricane, I loved to gaze upon the ieath-covered wilderness, where the blue horizon only girded Its jiurple bosom. It was no season to look upon the heath in the beauty of barrenness, yet I purposely diverged from (he main road. About an hour, therefore, after 1 had de- scended from the region of the Lammerraoors, and entered the Lothians, I beaime sensible I was pursuing a path which was not forwarding my footsteps to Edinburgh. It was De- cember; the sun had just gone down ; I was not very partial to travelling in darkness, neither did I wish to trust to chance for finding a comfortable restingplace for the night. Porcein'ng a farm-steading and water-mill about a quarter of a mile from the road, I resolved to turn towards them, nnd make inquiry respecting the right path, or, at least, to request to be directed to the nearest inn. The " town," as the three or four houses and mill were c;dled, was all bustle and confusion. The female inhabitants were cleaning and scouring, and running to and fro. I quickly learned th;it all this note of preparation arose from the " maister" being to be married within three days. Seeing me a stranger, he came from his house towards me. He was a tall, stout, good-looking, jolly-faced farmer and miller. His manner of accosting me partook more of kind- liness than civility; and his inquiiies were not free from the familuir, prymg curiosity which prevails in every corner of our island, and, I must say, in the north in particular. " Where do you come fra, na — if it be a fair question?" inquired hs. ' From B " was the brief and merely cinl reply. " An' hae ye come frae there the duyf" he coutijiucd. ' Yes," was the answer. ' Ay, man, an' ye come frae B , do ye?" added he> •' then, nae doot, ye'll ken a person they ca' Mr — ■ — ?" " Did he come originally from Dunse?" returned I, men- tioning also the occupation of the person referred to. " The very same," rejoined the miller; " are ye acquainted wi' him. Sir.'" " I ought to be," replied I ; " the person you speak of is merely my father." " Your faither!" exclaimed he, opening liis mouth and eyes to their full widlh, and standing lor a moment the pic- ture of surprise — " Ciude gracious ! ye dinna s;iy sae ! — is he really your failhcr? Losh, man, do you no ken, then, that I'm your cousin ! Y'e've heard o' your cousin, ^\'illie Stewart." " Fifty times," replied I. " Weel, I'm the vera man," said he — " Gie's your hand; for, 'odsake man, I'm as glad as glad can he. This is real extraordinar. I've often heard o' you — it will be you that writes the buiks — faith ye'll be able to niak something o' this. But come awa into the house — ye dinna stir a mile far'er for a week, at ony rate." So saying, and still grasping my hand, he led me to the farm-house. On crossing the threshold — " Here, lassie," he cried, in a voice that made roof and rafters ring, " bring ben the specrits, and get on the kettle — here's a cousin that I ne'er saw in my life afore." A few minutes served mutually to confirm and explain our newly discovered relationship. " Man," said he, as we were filling a second glass, " ye've just come in the very nick o' time; an' I'll tell ye how. Ye see I am gaun to be married the d.ay after the morn ; an' no haein' a friend o' ony kin-kind in this quarter, I had to ask an acquaintance to be the best man. Now, this was vexin' me mair than ye can think, particuhirly, ye see, be- cause the sweetheart has aye been hinting to me that it wadna be lucky for me no to hae a liluid relation for a best man. For that matter, indeed, luck here, luck there, I no care the toss up o' a ha'penny about omens mysel'; but now that ye've fortunately come, I'm a great deal easier, an' it win he ae craik out o' the way, for it will please her; an' ye may guess, between j'ou an' me, that she's worth the pleasin', or I wadna had her; so I'll just step ower an' tell the ither lad that I hae a cousin come to be my best man, an' he'll think naething o't." On the morning of the third d.iy, the bride and her friends arrived. She was the only child of a Lammermoor farmer, and was in truth a real mount.oin flower — a heath blossom ; for the rude health that laughed upon her cheeks approached nearer the hue of the heather-beU, than the rose imd ver- milion of which poets speak. She was comely witlnJ, pos- sessing an appear.ance of considerable strength, and was rather above the middle size — in short, she was the very belle ideal of a miller's wife! But to go on. Twelve couple accompanied the happy miller and his bride to the manse, independent of the m;u-- ried, middle-aged, and grey-haired visiters, who followed behind and by our side. AVe were thus proceeding onward to the house of the minister, whose blessing was to make a couple happy, and the arm of the blooming bride was tlirough mine, when I heard a voice, or rather let me say a sound, like the croak of a raven, exclaim — " Mercy on us! saw ye e'er the like o' that! — the best man, I'll declare, has a black coat on!" " An" that's no hickv!" replied another. Lucky !" responded the raven voice — " just perfectly awfu' ! 1 wadna it had happened at the weddin' o' a bairn o' mine for the king's dominions." I observed the bride steal a glanceat myshou-der; I felt TALES OF THE BOEDERS. er tliougl.t I felt, as if she shrunk from my arm ; and when I spoke to her her speech faltered. I found that my cousin, in avoiding one omen, had stumbled upon another, in my black coat. I was wroth with the rural prophetess, and turned round to behold her. Her little grey eyes, twinkling through spectacles, were wink winking upon my ill-fated coat. She was a crooked, (forgive me for saying an ugly,) little, old woman ; she was " bearded like a pard," and walked with a crooked stick mounted with silver. (On the very Spot* where she then was, the last witch in Scotland was burned.) 1 turned from the grinning sibyl with dis- gust. On the previous day, and during part of the night, the rain had fallen heavily, and the Broxburn was swollen to the magnitude of a little river. The manse lay on the oppo- site side of the burn, which was generally crossed by the aid of stepping-stones ; but on the day in question the tops of the stones were barely visible. On crossing the burn, the foot of the bride slipped, and the bridegroom, in his eager- ness to assist her, slipped also — knee-deep in the water. The raven voice was again heard — it was another omen. The kitchen was the only room in the manse large enough to contain the spectators assembled to witness the ceremony, which passed over smoothly enough, save that, when the clergyman was about to join the hands of the parties, I drew off the glove of the bride a second or two before the brides- maid performed a similar operation on the hand of the bridegroom. I heard the whisper of the crooked old woman, and saw that the eyes of the other women were upon me. I felt that I had committed another omen, and almost resolved to renounce wearing " blacks" for the future. The cere- mony, however, was concluded ; we returned from the manse, and everything was forgotten, save mirth and music, till the hour arrived for tea. The bride's mother had boasted of her " daughter's double set o' real china" during the afternoon ; and the female part of the company evidently felt anxious to examine the costly crockery. A young woman was entering with a tray and the tea equipage — another, similarly laden, fol- lowed behind her. The " sneck" of the door caught the handle of the tray, and down went china, waiting-maid, and all ! The fall startled her companion — their feet became entangled — both- embraced the floor, and the china from both trays lay scattered around them in a thousand shapes and sizes! This was an omen with a vengeance ! I could not avoid stealing a look at the sleeve of my black coat. The bearded old woman seemed inspired. She declared the luck of the house was broken ! Of the double set of real china not a cup was left — not an odd saucer. The bride- groom bore the misfortune as a man ; and, gently drawing the head of his young partner towards him, said, " Never mind them, hinny — let them gang — we'll get mair." The bride, poor thing, shed a tear ; but the miller threw his arm round her neck, stole a kiss, and she blushed and smiled. It was evident, however, that every one of the company regarded this as a real omen. The mill-loft was prepared for the joyous dance ; but scarce had the fantastic toes (some of them were not light ones) begun to move through the mazy rounds, when the loft-floor broke down beneath the bounding feet of the happy-hearted miller ; for, unfortu- nately, he considered not that his goodly body was heavier than his spirits. It was omen upon omen — the work of breakinff uad begun — the " luck" of the young couple was departed. Three days after the wedding, one of the miller's carts was got in readiness to carry home the bride's mother. On * The last person burned for witchcraft m Scotland was at Spot — tlie scene of our Drc3(">t etory. crossing the unlucky burn, to which we have already alluded, the horse stumbled fell, and broke its knee, and had to be taken back, and another put in its place. " Mair breakings !" exclaimed the now almost heart- broken old woman. " Oh, dear sake ! how will a' this end for my puir bairn I" I remained with my new-found relatives about a week ; and while there, the miller sent his boy for payment of an account of thirty pounds, he having to make up monev to pay a corn-factor at the Haddington market on the follow- ing day. In the evening the boy returned. " Weel, callant," inquired the miller, " hae ye gotten the siller r" " No," replied the youth. " Jlercy me I" exclaimed my cousin, hastily, " hae ye nc gotten the siller? Wha did ye see, or what did they say ?" " I saw the wife," retiirned the boy ; " an' she said — ' Siller ! laddie, what's brought ye here for siller — I dare- say your maister's daft ! Do ye no ken we're broken ! I'm sure a'body kens that ice broke j/esterday .'"" "The mischief break them !" exclaimed the miller, rising and walking hurriedly across the room — " this is breaking in earnest." I may not here particularize the breakings that followed. One misfortune succeeded another, till the miller broke also. All that he had was put under the hammer, and he wan- dered forth with his young wife a broken man. Some years afterwards, I met with him in a different part of the country. He had the management of extensive flour mills. He was again doing well, and had money in bis master's hands. At last there seemed to be an end of the breakings. We were sitting together, when a third person entered, with a rueful countenance. "Willie," said he, with the tone of a speaking sepulchre, " hae ye heard the news ?" " What news, now ?" inquired the miller, seriously. "The maister's broken f" rejoined the other. " A n my fifty pounds ?" responded my cousin, in e voice of horror. " Are broken wi' him," returned the stranger. " Oh, gude gracious !" cried the young wife, wringing her hands, " I'm sure I wish I were out o' this world 1 — will ever thir breakings be done ! — what tempted my mother to buy me the cheena ?" " Or me to wear a black coat at your wedding," thought I. A few weeks afterwards a letter arrived, announcing that death had suddenly broken the thread of life of her aged father, and her mother requested them to come and take charge of the farm which was now theirs. They went. The old man had made money upon the hills. They got the better of the broken china and of my black coat. For- tune broke in upon them. My cousin declared that omens were nonsense, and his wife added that she " really thought there was naething in them. But it was lang an' mony a day," she added, " or I could get your black coat and my mother's cheena out o' my mind." They began to prosper and they prosper still. WILSON'S ILjislon'cal, ©rntittfonntT), nnti Imnginatifae TALES OF THE BORDERS. r AVE'LL HAVE ANOTHER When the glass, the laugh, and the social " crack " go round the convivial table, there are few who may not have heard the words, " We'll have another!" It is an oft repeated phrase — and it seems a simple one ; yet, simple as it appears, it has a magical and fatal influence. The lover of sociality yieldeth to the friendly temptation it conveys, nor dreameth that it is a whisper from which scandal catcheth its thousand echoes — that it is a phrase which has blasted yeputation — withered aflection's heart — darkened the fairest prospects — ruined credit — conducted to the prison-house, and led to the grave. When our readers again hear the words, let them think of our present story. Adam Brown was the eldest son of a poor widow, who kept a small shop in a village near the banks of the Teviot. From infancy Adam was a mild retiring boy, and he was seldom seen to join in the sports of his schoolmates. On the winter evenings, he would sit poring over a book by the fire, while his mother would say — " Dinna stir up the fire, bairn ; ye dinna mind that coals are dear ; and I'm sure ye'll hurt yoursel' wi' pore, poring ower yer books — for they're never oot o' yer hand." In the summer, too, Adam would steal away from the noise of the village to some favourite shady nook by the river side ; and there, on the gowany brae, he would, with a standard author in his hand, "crack wi' kings," or "hold high converse with the mighty dead." lie was about thirteen when his father died ; and the Eev. Mr Douglas, the minister of the parish, visiting the afHicted widow, she said, " she had had a sair bereavement, yet she had reason to be thankfu' that she had ae comfort left, for her poor Adam was a great consolation to her ; every nicht he had read a chapter to his younger brothers — and, oh, sir," she added, "it wad make your heart melt to have heard my bairn pray for his widowed mother." Mr Douglas be- came interested in the boy, and finding him apt to learn, he placed him for another year at the parish school, at his own expense. Adam's progress was all that his patron could desire. He became a frequent visitor at the manse, and was allowed the use of the minister's library. Mr Douglas had a daughter who was nearly of the same age as his young protege'. Mary Douglas was not what could be oalled beautiful ; but she was a gentle and interesting girl. She and Adam read and studied together. She delighted in a flower-garden, and he was wont to dress it ; and he would often wander miles, and consider himself happy when he obtained a strange root to plant in it. Adam was now sixteen. It was his misfortune, as it has been the ruin of many, to be without an aim. His mother declared that she was at a loss what to make him. " But," added she, " he is a guid scholar, that is ae thing, and Can Do is easy carried about." Mr Douglas himself became anxious about Adam's prospects : he e%'inced a dislike to be apprenticed to any mechanical profession, and he was too old to remain longer a burden upon his mother. At the suggestion of Mr Douglas, therefore, when about seventeen, he opened a school in a neighbouring village. Some said that he was too young ; others, that he was too simple, that lie allowed the children to have all their own way; and a few even hinted that he went too much back and forward to the manse in the adjoining parish, to pay attention to his 2. Vol. I. Bchooh However these things might bo, certain it is the scliool did not succeed ; and, after struggling with it for two years, he resolved to try his fortune in London. He was to sail from Leith, and his trunk had been sent to Hawick to be forwarded by the carrier. Adam was to leave his mother's house early on the following morning ; and on the evening preceding his departure, he paid his farewell visit to the Manse. Mr Douglas received him with his wonted kindness ; he gave him one or two letters of re- commendation, and much wholesome advice, although the good man was nearly as ignorant of what is called the wortd as the youth who was about to enter it. Adam sat long, and said little ; for his heart was full and his spirit heavy. He ! had never said to Mary Douglas, in plain words, that he loved her — he had never dared to do so; and he now sat with his eyes anxiously bent upon her, trembling to bid her fare- welL She too was silent. At length he rose to depart ; lie held out his hand to Mr Douglas; the latter shook it affec- tionately, adding — "Farewell, Adam ! — may Heaven protect you against the numerous temptations of the great city ! " He turned towards Mary — he hesitated, his hands dropped by his side — " Could I sjieak wi' you a moment?" said he, and his tongue faltered as he spoke. With a tear glistening in her eyes, she looked towards her father, who nodded his consent, and she arose and accompanied Adam to the door. They walked towards the flower-garden — he had taken her hand in liis — he pressed it, but he spoke not, and she offered not to withdraw it. He seemed struggling to speak ; and, at length, in a tone of earnest fondness — and he shook as he spoke — he said, "Will you not forget me, Mary?" A half- smothered sob was her reply, and a tear fell on his hand. " Say you will not," he added, yet more earnestly. "O Adam!" returned she, "how can you say forget? — Never! never!" "Enough ! enough !" he continued, and they wept together. It was scarce daybreak when Adam rose to take his depart ure, and to bid his mother and his brethren farewell. " Oh ! ' exclaimed she, as she placed his breakfast before him, " is this the last meal that my bairn's to eat in my house?" He ate but little ; and she continued — weeping as she spoke — " Eat, hinny, eat ; ye have a lang road before ye ; — and, O Adam, aboon everything earthly, mind that ye write to me every week ; never think o' the postage — for, though it should tak my last farthing, I maun hear frae ye." He took his statf in his hand, and prepared to depart. He embraced his younger brothers, and tears were their only and mutual adieu. His parent sobbed aloud. "Fareweel, mother!" said he, in a voice half-choked with anguish — " Fareweel ! " " God bless my bairn!" she exclaimed, wringing his hand, and she leaned her head upon his shoulder, and wept as though her heart would burst. In agony, he tore himself from her embrace, and hurried from the house ; and during the first miles of his journey, at every rising ground, he. turned anxiously roimd, to obtain another lingering look of the place of his nativity ; and, in the fulness and bitterness of his feelings, he pronounced the names of his mother, and his brethren, and of Mary Douglas in the same breath. We need not describe his passage to London, nor tell how he stood gazing wonderstruck, like a graven image of amaze- ment, as the vessel winded up the Thames, through the long forest of masts, from which waved the flags of every nation 10 TALES OF THE BOEDEES It was about mid-day, early in the montli of April, when the smack drew up off Hermitage Stairs, and Adam was aroused from his reverie of astonishment, by a waterman, who had come upon deck, and who, pulling him by the button- hole, said — " Boat, master ? boat ?" Adam did not exactly understand the question, but, seeing the other passengers getting their luggage into the boats, he followed their ex- ample. On landing, he was surrounded by a group of porters, BBveral of whom took hold of his trunk, all inquiring, at the same moment, where he wished it taken to. This was a ques- tion he could not answer. It was one he had never thought of before. He looked confused, and replied, " I watna." " Watna !" said one of the Cockney burden-bearers — " Walna ! — there an't such a street in all London." Adam was in the midst of London, and he knew not a living soul among its million of inhabitants. lie knew not where to go; but, recollecting that one of the gentlemen to whom Mr Douglass had recommended him was a Mr Davison, a merchant in Cornhill, he inquired — " Does ony o' ye ken a Mr Davison, a merchant in CornhiU >" " Vy, I can't say as how I know him," replied a porter ; ' but, if you wish your luggage taken there, I will find him for you in a twinkUng." " An' what wad ye be asking to carry the bit box there ?" said Adam, in a manner betokening an equal proportion of simplicity and caution. " Masking ?" replied the other — " vy, I'm blessed if you get any one to carry it for less than four shillings." " I canna alford four shillings," said Adam, " and I'll be obleeged to ye if ye'll gie me a lift on to my shouther wi't, an' I'll carry it mysel'." They uttered some low jests against his country, and left him to get his trunk upon his shoulders as he best might. Adam said truly that he could not afford four shil- lings ; for, after paying his passage, he had not thirty shil- lings left in the world. It is time, however, that we should describe Adam more particularly to our readers. He was dressed in a coarse grey coat, with trowsers of the same colour, a stripped waistcoat, a half-worn broad-brimmed hat, and thick shoes studded with nails, which clattered as he went. Thus arrayed, and with his trunk upon his shoulders, Adam went tramping and clattering along East Smithfield, over Tower- hill, and along the IMinories, inquiring at every turning " If any one could direct him to Mr Davison's, the mer- chant in Cornhill .''" There was many a laugh, and many a joke, at poor Adam's expense, as he went trudging along, and more than once the trunk fell to the ground, as he came in contact with the crowds who were hurrying past him He had been directed out of his way ; but at length he ar- rived at the place he sought. He placed his burden on the ground — he rang the bell — and again and again he rang, but no one answered. His letter was addressed to 3Ir Davi- son's counting-house — it was past business hours, and his office was locked up for the day. Adam was now tired, disappointed, and perplexed. He wist not what to do. He informed several " decent-looking people," as he said, " that he was a stranger, and he would be obleeged to them if they could recommend him to a lodging." He was shewn several but the rent per week terrified Adam. He was sinking under his burden, when, near the corner of Newgate Street, he inquired of an old Irish orange-woman, if " she could inform him where he would be likely to obtain a lodging at the rate of eighteen-pence or two shillings a-week ? " Sure, and it's I who can, jewel," replied she ; " and an iligant room it is, with a bed liis Holiness might rest his blessed bones on, and never a one slapes in it at all but my own boy Barney ; and, barring when Barney's in dhrink — and that's not above twice a-week — you'll make mighty pleaBont sort of company together," Adam was glad to have the prospect of a resting-planeol any sort before him at last, and with a lighter heart and a freer step he followed the old orange-woman. She conducted him to Green Dragon Court, and desiring him to follow her up a long, dark, dirty stair, ushered him into a small, miserable-looking garret, dimly lighted by a broken sky. light, while the entire furniture consisted of four wooden posts without curtains, which she termed a bed, a mutilated chair, and a low wooden stool. " Now, darUnt," said she, observing Adam fatigued, " here is a room fit for a prince ; and, sure you won't be thinkinghalf-a-crion ^Ir Daniells o' Chancery Lane has sent to you as a book-keeper." "Mr Danielis — INIr Daniells?" said the merchant ; " don't know any such person — luive nut wanted a hook-keeper these sis months." " Sir," said Adam, " are ye no Mr Robertson o' 54 Thames Street i*" "I am," replied the merchant; "hut," added he, " I see how It is. I'rav, young man, what did you give this Ulr Daniells to recommend you to the situation ?" " llalf-a-crown, sir," returned Adam. " Well," said the other, " vou have more money than wit. Good morning, sir, and take care of another Mr Daniells." Poor Adam was dumioundered ; and, in the bitterness of his spirit, he said London was a den o' thieves. I might tell you how his last shilling was expended — how he lived upon bread and water — how he fell into arrears with the orange-woman for the rent of his garret — how she perse- cuted him — how he was puzzled to understand the meaning of the generous words, " Jifoney Lent ;" — how the orange- woman, in order to ohtain her rent, taught him the mystery of the t/irce golden halls — and how the shirts ^^hich his mother had made him from a web of her own spinning, and his books, and all that he had, save the clothes upon his back, were pledged — and how, when all was gone, the old landlady turned him to the door, houseless, friendless, penniless, with no companion but despair. We might have dwelt upon these things, but must proceed with his history. Adam, after enduring privations which would make hu- jianity shudder, obtained the situation of assistant-porter in a merchant's office. The employment was humble, but he received it joyfully. He was steady and industrious, and it was not long until he was appointed warehouseman ; and his employer, finding that, in addition to his good qualities, he had received a superior education, made him one of his confidential clerks. He had held the situation about two years. The rust, as his brother clerks said, was now pretty well rubbed ofl' Scotch Adam. His hodden-gray was laid aside for the dashing green, his hob-nailed shoes for fasbionalile pumps, and his broad-brimmed hat for a narrow-crowned beaver \ his speech, too, had caught a sprinkling of the southern accent ; but, in other respects, he was the same inoffensive, steady, and serious being as when he left his mother's cottage. His companions were wnnt to " roast" Adam, as they termed it, on what they called his Jlethodism. They had often urged him to accompany them to the theatre ; but, for two years, he had stubhornly withstood their tempta- tions. The stage was to Adam what the tree of knowledge was to his first namesake and progenitor. He had been coun- selled against it, he had read against it, he had heard ser- mons against it; but had never been within the walls of a theatre. The Sidilons, and her brother John Kemble, then in the zenith of their fame, were filling not only London but Kurope with their names. One evening they were to perform together — Adam had often heard of them — he ad- mired Shakepcare — his curiosity was excited — he yielded to the solicitations of his companions, and accompanied them to Covent Garden, The curtain was drawn up Che per- formance began. Anam's soul was riveted, his senses dis- tracted. The Siddons swept before him like a vision of im- niorl.ality — Kemble seemed to draw a soul from the tomb of the Caesars; and, as the curtain fell.and the loud music pealed, Adam felt as if a new existence and a new world had opened before him, and his head reeled with wonder and deli;;b«'. When the performances were concluded, his companions proposed to have a single bottle in an adjoining tavern ; Adam olfcred some O])position, but was previiiled upon to accompany them. Several of the players entered — they were convivial spirits, abaundiiig with wit, anecdote, and song. The scene was new, but not unpleasant to Adam. He took no note of time. lie was unuhcd to drink, and little affected him. The first bottle was finished. " We 'll Havk .\NOTHEn," said ipiie of his companions. It was the first time Adam had heard the fatal words, and he offered no opposition. He drank again — he began to expatiate on divers suljects — he discovered he was an orator. " Well done, Mr Brown," cried one of his comjianions. " there 'b hope of you yet — we'll luice another, ray boy — three 's hand I" A third holtle was brought ; Adam was called upon for a song. He could sing, and sing well too ; and, taking his glass in his hand, he began — "Stop, stop, we Ml liae nnitlier pill, Ne'ur iniiid a lang-tongued bcl*iaDie*B yattcr ; Tliey 're fools wlia'd l-^ave a glass o* yill For oiiy wil'e'a inferuul clatter. " There 'sBot, when I ganj? hamc the night. Will set the hail stair-head a riugiu* — Let a' the ncobors hear her flyte, Ca' me a brute, and stap my sinpin'. She '11 yelp about the bairns' raps — Ca'me a drucken gide-for-nacthin*! She "11 curse my throat an' drouthy bags, Au' at me thraw their duddy claethiu* ! " Chorus, gentlemen — chorus !" tinned — cried Adam, and coiw " The fif nt a supper I '11 get there — A dish o tonrjue* is a" she '11 pie me ! She '11 shake her nicve iind rug her hair, An* wonder hoo she e'er gaed wi' me I She vows to leave me, an' I say, * Gang, gang ! for dearsake ! — that's ablessin'!* She rins to get her clacs away, But — o the hUt the hey^s atnisetn'' \ " Tlic younkers a* set up a skirl, They shriek an' cry — ' Oh dinna, mither [' I slip to bed, an' faali th ^ quarrel Neither ae way nor anither. Bet creeps beside me unca dour, I clap her back, an' say — ' Jly dawtie !* Quo' she — ' Weel, weel, my passion 's owre. But dinua gang a-diinkili', Watty.' " " Bravo, Scotchy !" shouted one. " Your health and song, Mr Brown," cried another. Adam's head began to swim — the lights danced before his eves — he fell from his chair. One of his friends called a hackney coach ; and, half insen- sible of where he was, he was conveyed to his lodgings. It was afternoon on the following day before he appeared at the counting-house, and his eyes were red, and he had the languid look of one who has spent a night in revelry. That night he was again prevailed upon to accompany his brother clerks to the club room, "just," as they expressed it, "to have one bottle to put all right." That night he again heard the words — " We'll hare another," and again he yielded to their seduction. But we will nnt follow him through the steps and through the snares by which he departed from virtue and became entangled in vice. He became an almost nightly frequenter of the tavern, the theatre, or both, and his habits opened up temptations to grosser viciousncss. Still he kept up a cor- respondence with Mary Douglas, the gentle object of hia young affections, and, for a time, her endeared remembrance haunted him like a protecting angel, whispering in his ear and saving him from depravity. But his religious principles were already forgotten ; and, when that cord was snapped asunder, the fibre of affection that twined around his heart 12 TALES OF THE BORDERS. did not long hold him in the path of virtue. As the influ- ence of company grew upon him, her remembrance lost its power, and Adam Brown plunged headlong into all the pleasures and temptations of the metropolis. Still he was attentive to business — he still retained the confidence of his employer — his salary was liberal — he still sent thirty pounds a-year to his mother ; and Mary Douglas yet held a place in his heart, though he was changed — fatal- ly changed. He had been about four years in his situation when he obtained leave for a few weeks to visit his native village. It was on a summer afternoon, when a chase from Jedburgh drove up to the door of the only public-house in the village. A fashionably dressed young man alighted, and, in an afl'ected voice, desired the landlordto send a/jor/erwith his luggage to Mrs Brown's. " A porter, sir ?" said the innkeeper — " there's naethin' o' the kind in the toun ; but I'll get twa callants to tak it alang." He hastened to his mother's — " Ah ! how d'ye do ?" said he, slightly shaking the hands of his younger brothers — but a tear gathered in his eye as his mother kissed his cheek. She, good soul, when the first surprise was over, said " she hardly kenned her bairn in sic a fine gentleman." He pro- ceeded to the manse, and Mary marvelled at the change in his appearance and his manner ; yet she loved him not the less : but her father beheld the affectation and levity of his young friend, and grieved over them. He had not been a month in the village when Mary gave him her hand, and they set out for London together. For a few weeks after their arrival, he spent his evenings at their own fireside, and they were blest in the society of each other. But it was not long until company again spread its seductive snares around him. Again he listened to the words — " We'll have another" — again he yielded to their temptation, and again the ^orce of habit maAe him its slave. Night fallowed night, and he was irritable and uii'rippy, unless in the midst of his boon companions. Poor Mary felt the bitterness and anguish of a deserted wife ; but she up- braided him not — she spoke not of her sorrows. Health forsook her cheeks, and gladness had fled from her spirit; yet as she nightly sat hour after hour waiting his return, as he entered, she welcomed him with a smile, wliich not unfre- quently was met with an imprecation or a frown. They had been married about two years. Mary was a mother, and oft at midnight she would sit weeping over the cradle of her child, mourning in secret for its thoughtless father. It was her birth-day, her father had come to London to visit them ; she had not told him of her sorrows, and she had invited a few friends to dine with them. They had assem- bled ; but Adam was still absent. He had been unkind to her ; but this was an unkindness she did not expect from him. They were j'et waiting, when a police-oflicer entered. His errand was soon told. Adam Brown had become a gambler, as well as a drunkard — he had been guilty of fraud and embezzlement — his guilt had been discovered, and the police were in quest of him. Mr Douglas wrung his hands and groaned. Mary bore the dreadful blow with more than human fortitude. She uttered no scream — she shed no tears; for a moment she sat motionless — speechless. It was the dumbness of agony. With her child at her breast, and, in the midst of her guests, she flung herself at her father's feet. " Father !" she exclaimed, " for my sake ! — for my helpless child's salce — save ! oh, save my poor husband !" " For your sake, wnat I can do I will do, dearest," groaned the old man. A coach was ordered to the door, and the miserable wife and her father hastened to the office of her husband's em- ployer. When Adam Brown received intelligence that his guilt was discovered, from a companion, he was carousing with others in a low gamblins-house. Horror seized him, and he hurried from the room ; but he returned in a few minutes. " fVe'il have another!" he exclaimed, in a tone of frenzy — and another was brought. He half filled a glass — he raised it to his lips — he dashed into it a deadly poison, and, ere they could stay his hand, the fatal draught was swallowed. ' He had purchased a quantity of arsenic when he rushed from the house. His fellow-gamblers were thronging around him, when his injured wife and her grey-haired father entered the " l room. " Away, tormentors ! " he exclaimed, as his glazed I eyes fell upon them, and he dashed his hand before his face. "My husband ! my dear husband!" cried Mary, flinging her arms around his neck ; " look on me — speak to me ! All is well !" He gazed on her face — he grasped her hand — " Mary — my injured JIary !" he exclaimed, convulsively, " can you forgive me — you — you? O God! I was once innocent-, Forgive me, dearest ! — for our child's sake, curse not its guilty father !" "Husband! — Adam!" she cried, wringing his hand — " come with me, love, come — leave this horrid place — you have nothing to fear — your debt is paid." " Paid !" he exclaimed, wildly — " Ila ! ha ! — Paid i' They were his last words — convulsions came upon him — tl:e film of death passed over his eyes, and his troubled spirit fled. She clung round his neck — she yet cried, " Speak to me!" — she refused to believe that he was dead, and her reason seemed to have fled with his spirit. She was taken from his body and conveyed home. The agony of grief subsided into a stupor approaching imbecility. She was unconscious of all around ; and within three weeks from the death of her husband, the broken spirit of M.nry Douglas found rest, and her father returned in sorrow with her helpless orphan to Teviotdale. THE SOLDIER'S RETURN. Seven or eight years ago, I was travelling between Berwick and Selkirk ; and, having started at the crowing of the cock, I had left Melrose before four in the afternoon. On arriving at Abbotsford, I perceived a Highland soldier, apparently fatigued as myself, leaning upon a walking-stick, and gazing intensely on the fairy palace of the magician whose wand is since broken, but whose magic still remains. I am no par- ticular disciple of Lavater's ; yet the man carried his soul upon his face, and we were friends at the first glance. He wore a plain Highland bonnet, and a course grey greatcoat, buttoned to the throat. His dress bespoke him to belong only to the ranks ; but there was a dignity in his manner, and a fire, a glowing language, in his eyes, worthy of a chieftain. His height might exceed five feet nine, and his age be about thirty. The traces of manly beauty were still upon his cheeks ; but the sun of a western hemisphere had tinged them with a sallow hue, and imprinted untimely furrows. Our conversation related chiefly to the classic scenery around us ; and we had pleasantly journeyed together for two or three miles, when we arrived at a little sequestered burial-ground by the way-side, near which there was neither church nor dwelling. Its low wall was thinly covered with turf, and we sat down upon it to rest. My companion be- came silent and melancholy, and his eyes wandered anxiously among the graves. " Here," said he, " sleep some of my father's children, who died in infancy." He picked up a small stone from the ground, and, throwing it gently about ten yards, " That," added he, " is the very TALES OF THE BOIIDERS. 13 upot. lUit, tlianic Gnil ! no f^rave-slono lias boon raised (luring my absence ! It is a toihn Stuart of Allanbank. Some weeks ago, the author of these Tales received a Idter (rva Sir Hugh Stuart, son of Sir John n-fenwl to, staling tliat his family •mlij be glad to have such a heroine as Grizel connected with their gcn»_.ogy but that they were unable to prove such connection. ' ^-^"^ AV I L S N ' S IDtslon'cnl, ©rnlifti'onnvn, nnti Imagiiuitibc TALES OF THE BORDERS, AND OF SCOTLAND. SAYINGS AND DOINGS OP PETER PATERSON. An every-day biographer would have said that Peter Paterson was the son of pious and respectable parents; and he would have been perfectly right, for the parents of Peter were both pious and respectable. I say they were pious; for, every week-night, as duly as the clock struck nine, and every Sabbath morning and evening, Robin Paterson and his wife Betty called in their man-servant and their maid-ser- vant into what now-a-days would be styled their parlour, and there the voice of Psalms, of reading the Word, and of prayer was heard; and, moreover, their actions corre- sponded with their profession. I say also they were respect- able ; for Robin Paterson rented a farm called Foxlaw, con- sisting of fifty acres, in which, as his neighbours said, he was "making money like hay" — for land was not three or four guineas an acre in those days. Foxlaw was in the south of Scotland, upon the east coast, and the farm-house stood on the brae-side, within a stone-throw of the sea. The brae oa which Foxlaw stood formed one side of a sort of deep valley or ravine ; and at the foot of the valley was a small village, with a few respectable-looking houses scat- tered here and tliere in its 'neighbourhood. Robin and Betty had been married about six years, when to the e.^ceeding joy of both, Betty brought forth a son, and they called his name Peter — that having been the Christian name of his paternal grandfather. Before he was six weeks old, his mother protested he would be a prodigy; and was heard to say — " See, Robin, man, see ! — did ye ever ken the like o' that ? — see how he laughs ! — he kens his name already!" And Betty and Robin kissed their child alternately, and gloried in his smile. '' O Betty," said Robin — for Robin was no common man — " that smile was the first spark o' reason glimmerin' in our infant's soul ! — Thank God ! the bairn has a' its faculties." At five years old Peter was sent to the village school, where he continued till he was fifteen ; and there he was more distinguished as a pugilist than as a bookworm. Nevertheless, Peter contrived almost invariably to remain dux of his class; but this was accounted *Yor by the fact, that, when he made a blunder, no one dared to trap him, well knowing that if they had done so, the moment they were out of school Peter would have made his knuckles acquainted with their seat of superior knowledge. On occasions when he was fairly puzzled, and the teacher would put the question to a boy lower in the class, the latter would tremble and stammer, and look now at his teacher, and now squint at Peter, stammer again, and again look from the one to the other, while Peter would draw his book before his face, and, giving a scowling glent at the stam- merer, would give a sort of significant nod to his fist sud- denly clenched upon the open page ; and when the teacher 3. Vol. I. stamped his foot, and cried, "Speak, sirl" the trembler whimpered, " I daurna, sir." " Ye daurna ! " the enraged dominie would cry — "Why?" "Because — because, sir," was slowly stammered out — " Peter Paterson wud lick me!" Then would the incensed disciplinarian spring upon Peter ; and, grasping hini by the collar, whirl his taws in the air, and bring them with his utmost strength round the back, sides, and limbs of Peter ; but Peter was like a rock, and his eyes more stubborn than a rock; and, in the midst of all, he gazed in the face of his tormentor with a look ot imperturbable defiance and contempt. Notwithstanding this course of education, when Peter had attained the age of fifteen, the village instructor found it necessary to call at Foxlaw, and inform Robin Paterson that he could do no more for his son, adding that — " He was fit for the college ; and, though he said it that should not say it, as fit for it as any student that ever entered it." These were glad tidings to a father's heart, and Robin treated the dominie to an extra tumbler. Pie, however, thought his son was young enough for the college — "We'll wait anither year," said he; "an' Peter can be improvin' himsel at hame ; an' ye can gie a look in, Maister, an' advise us to ony kind o' books ye think he should hae — we'll aye be happy to see ye, for ye've done yer duty to him, I'll say that for ye." So another year passed on, and Peter remained about the farm. He was now sometimes seen with a book in his hand; but more frequently with a gun, and more frequently still with a fishing rod. At the end of the twelve months, Peter positively refused to go to the college. His mother entreated, and his father threatened ; but it was labour in vain. At last — " It's o' nae \ise striving against the stream," said Robin — " ye canna gather berries off a whin- bush. Let him e'en tak his ain way, an' he may live to rue it." Thus, Peter went on reading, shooting, fishing, and. working about the farm, till he was eighteen. He now began to receive a number of epithets from the neighbours. His old schoolmaster called him "Ne'er-do-weel Peter;" but the dominie was a mere proser ; he knew the moods and tenses of a Greek or Latin sentence, but he was in- capable of appreciating its soul. Some called him "Poetical Peter," and a few "Prosing Peter;" but the latter were downright bargain-making, pounds-sbillings-and-pence men, whose souls were dead to " The masio of sweet sonnds ; " and sensible only of the jink of the coin of the realm. Others called him " Daft Peter," for he was the leader of frolic, fun, and harmless mischief; but now the maidens of the village also began to call him " Handsome Peter." Yet he of wliom they thus spoke would wander for hours alone by the beach of the solitary sea, gazing upon its army of waves warring with the winds, till his very spirit took part in the conflict ; or he could look till his eyes got blind on its unruffled bosom, when the morning sun flung over it, from the horizon to the shore, a flash of glory ; or, when the moonbeams, like a million torches shooting from the deep, 18 TALES OF THE BOEDERS, danced on its vindulatLng billows — then tvould he stand, like an entranced being, listening to its everlasting anthem, while his soul, awed and elevated by the magnificence of the scene, worshipped God, the Creator of the great sea. AVith all his reputed wildness, and with all his thoughtless- ness, even on the sea-banks, by the wood, and by the brae- eide, Peter fovmd voiceless, yet to him eloquent companions. To him the tender primrose was sacred as the first blush of opening womanhood ; and he would converse with the lowly daisy, till his gaze seemed to draw out the very soul of " Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flower." It, however, grieved his mother's spirit to see him, as she said, " Just idling awa his time, and leaving his learning at his heels." His father now said — " Let him just tak his fling an' find his ain weight — an' he'll either mak a spoon or spoil a horn, or my name's no Robin Paterson." But, from Peter's infancy, it had been his mother's ambition and desire to live to see him, as she expressed it, " wag his pow in a poopit," or, at any rate, to see him a gentleman. On one occasion, therefore, when Robin was at Dunse hiring- market, the schoolmaster having called on his old pupil, " Ne'er-do-weel Peter," the two entered into a controversy in the presence of Peter's mother, and, in the course of the iiscussion, the man of letters was dumfoundered by the fluency and force of the arguments of his young antagonist. Silent tears of exultation stole into Betty's eyes, to hear, as she said, " her bairn expawtiate equal — ay, superior to ony minister ;" and no sooner had the teacher withdrawn, than, fixing her admiring eyes on her son, she said — " O Peter, man, what a delivery ye hae ! — an' sat fii' o' the dictioner'! Troth but ye wad cut a fiuger i' the poopit ! There wad nae dust gather on your cushion — there wad he nae sleeping, nodding, or snoring, while my Peter was preachin'. An', oh, hinny, but ye will mak me a glad mother, if ye'll consent to gang to the college ! Ye wadna be lang o' gettin' a kirk, my man — I can tell ye that : an' if ye'll only consent to gang, ye shanna want pocket-money that your faither kens naething about — my bairn shall ap- pear wi' the best o' them. For syne ever ye was an infant, it has aye been my hope an my prayer, Peter, to see ye a minister ; an' I ne'er sent a hunder eggs or a basket o' but- ter to the market, but Peter's pennies were aye laid aside, to xep his pockets at the college." Peter was, in the main, a most, dutiful and most afi'ec- tionate son ; but on this point he wa? strangely stubborn ; and he replied — " Wheesht, mother ! wheesht! nae mair aboot it." " Nae mair aboot it, bairn !" said she ; " but I maun say mair aboot it ; — man ! wad ye fling awa your leamin' at a dyke-side, an' yer talents at a pleugh-tail .^ Wad ye just break yer mother an' faither's heart ? O Peter ! Peter, man, hae ye nae spirit ava? — What is yer objection f" " Weel, keep your temper, mother," said he, " an I'll tell ye candidly : — The kirk puts a strait-jacket on a body that I wadna hae elbow-room in !" " What do ye mean, ye graceless .''" added she, in a voice betokening a sort of horror. " Oh, naething particular ; only, for example, sic bits o' scandal as — the Reverend Peter Paterson was called before the session for shooting on his ain glebe — or, the Reverend Peter Paterson was summoned before the presbytery for leistering a salmon at the foot o' Tammy the Jliller's dam — or, the Reverend Peter Paterson was ordered to appear l)efore the General Assembly for clappin' Tammy the Mil- ler's servant lassie on the shouther, an' ca'ing her a winsome q u ean — or" " Or !" — exclaimed his impatient and mortified mother — " Oh, ye forward an' profane rascal ye ! how daur ye speak in sic a strain— or wad ye be guilty o' sicunministcrial con- (liict ? — wad ve disgrace the coal liy sic ungodly behaviour?" " There's nae sayin", mother," added he ; " but inna be angry — I'm sure, if I did either shoot, leister, or clap a bonny lassie on the shouther, ye wadna think it unlike youi . son Peter." I " Weel, weel," said the good-natured matron, softened ' down by his manner ; " it's true your faither says — it's nae use striving against the stream ; an' a' gifts arena graces But if ye'll no be a minister, what will ye be ? Wad ye no like to be a writer or an advocate .''" " Worse an' worse, mother ! I wad rather beg than live on the misery of another." " Then, callant," added Betty, shaking her head, and sighing as she spoke — " I dinna ken what we'll do wi' ye Will ye no be a doctor ?" " ^VTiat!" said Peter, laughing, and assuming a theatrical I attitude — " an apothecary ! — make an apothecary of me. I and cramp my genius over a pestle and mortar ? No mother — I will be a farmer, like my father before me." " Oh, ye ne'er-do-weel, as your maister ca's ye !" said his mother, as she rose and left the room in a passion ; " ye'll be a play-actor yet, an' that will be baith seen an' heard tell o', an' bring disgrace on us a'." Peter was, however, spell-hound to the vicinity of Foxlaw by stronger ties than an aversion to the college or a love for farming. He was about seventeen, when a Mr Graham, with his wife and family, came and took up his residence in one of the respectable-looking houses adjacent to the village. Mr Graham had been a seafaring man — it was reported the master of a small privateer; and in that capacity had acquired, as the villagers expressed it, " a sort o' money." He had a family of several children ; but the eldest was a lovely girl called Ann, about the same age as Peter Paterson. IMr Graham was fond of his gun, and so was Peter ; they frequently met on the neighbouring moors, and an intimacy sprang up between them. The old sailor also began to love his young companion ; for, though a landsman, he had a bold, reckless spirit : he could row, reef, and steer, and swim like an amphibious animal ; and, though only a boy, he was acknowledged to be the only boxer, and the best leapcr, runner, and wrestler in the country side — moreover, he could listen to a long yam, and, over a glass of old grog, toss ofl his heel-taps like a man ; and these qualifications drawing the heart of the skipper toward him, he in^-ited him to his house. But here a change came over the spirit of reckless, roving Peter. He saw Ann ; and an invisible hand seemed suddenly to strike him on the breast. His heart leaped to his throat. His eyes were riveted. He felt as if a flame passed over his face. Mr Graham told his longest stories, and Peter sat like a simpleton — hcarfeg every word, indeed, but not comprehending a single sentence. His entire soul was fixed on the fair being before him — every sense was swallowed up in sight. Ringlets of a shining brown were parted over Ler fair brow ; but Peter could not have told their colour — her soft blue eyes occasionally met his, but he noted not their hue. He beheld her lovely face, where the rose and the lily were blended — he saw the almost sculptured elegance of her form ; yet it was neither on these — on the shining ringlets, nor the soft blue eyes — that his spirit dwelt; but on Ann Graham, their gentle possessor. He felt as he had never felt before ; and he knew not wherefore. Next day, and every day, found Peter at the house of Captain Graham ; and often as love's own hour threw its grey mantle over the hills, he was to be seen wandering with the gentle Ann by his side, on the sea-banks, liy the be.ach, and in the unfrequented paths. Again and again, when no eye saw them, and when no car heard them, be had revealed tlie fulness of his heart before her ; and, in the rapture of the moment, sealed his truth upon her lips; while i she, with affection too deep for words, would fling her arm across his shoulder, and hide her face on bis breast to ccn ceal the tear of joy and of love. TALES OF THE BORDERS. 19 His parents looked upon Ann as llieir future dauglitcr; and, ivith Peter, the course of " true love ran smooth." A farm had been taken in an adjoining parish, on which he was to enter at the following Whitsunday ; and, on takin,i; possession of his farm, Ann Graham was to become his bride. Never did exile long more ardently for his native land, than did Peter Paterson for tlic comiiia; Whitsunday; but, ere it came, the poetical truth was verified, that "the course of true love never did run smooth." Contiguous to the farm of Foxlaw, lay the estate of one Laird Ilorslie — a young gentleman but little known in the neighbourhood ; for he had visited it but once, and that only for a few weeks, since it came into liis possession. All that was known of him was, that he wrote J. P. after his name — that he was a hard landlord, and had the reputation of spend- ing his rents faster than his factor could forward them to him. To him belonged tlie farm that had been taken for Peter; and it so happened, that before the Whitsunday which was to make the latter happy arrived, the laird paid a second visit to his estate. At the kirk, on the Sunday, all eyes were fixed on the young laird. Captain Graham was one of his tenants, and occupied a pew inm^ediately behind the square seat of the squire. But, while all eyes were fixed upon Laird Horslie, ho turned his back upon the minister, and gazed and gazed again upon the lovely countenance of Ann Gra- ham. All the congregation observed it. Ann blushed and hung her head ; but the young squire, with the privilege of a man of property, gazed on unabashed. What was observed by all the rest of the congregation, was not unobserved by Peter. Many, with a questionable expression in their eyes, turned them from the laird, and fixed them upon him. Peter observed this also, and his soul was wroth. His face glowed like a furnace; he stood up in his seat, and his teeth were clenched together. His fist was once or twice observed to be clenched also ; and he continued scowling on the laird, wish- ing in his heart for ability to annihilate him with a glance. Next day, the squire called upon the old skipper, and he praised the beauty of Ann in her own presence, and in the presence of her parents. But there was nothing particular in this ; for he called upon all his tenants, he chatted with them, tasted their bottle, paid compliments to their daugh- ters, and declared that their sons did honour to " Scotland's glorious peasantry." Many began to say that the laird was "a nice young gentleman " — that he had been "wickedly misca'ed;" and the factor " got the wyte o' a'." His visits to Mr. Graham's cottage, however, were continued day after day ; and his attentions to Ann became more and more marked. A keen sportsman himself, he was the implacable enemy of poachers, and had strictly prohibited shooting on his estate ; but, to the old skipper, the privilege was granted of shooting when and where he pleased. Instead, therefore, of seeing Peter Paterson and the old seaman in the fields together, it was no uncommon thing to meet the skipper and the squire. The affection of the former, indeed, had wonderfully cooled towards his intended son-in-law. Peter saw and felt this ; and the visits of the squire were wormwood to his spirit. If they did not make him jealous, they rendered him im- patient, impetuous, miserable. He was wandering alone upon the shore, at the hour which Hogg calls "between the gloamin' and the mirk," in one of these impatient, impetuous, and unhappy moods, when he resolved to live no longer in a state of torture and anxiety, but to have the sacred knot tied at once. Having so determined, Peter turned towards Graham's cottage. He had not proceeded far, when he observed a figure gliding before him on the footpath leading from the village to tlie cottage. Darkness was gathering fast, but he ■U once recognized the form before him to be that of his own sL Ann. She was not a hundred yards before him, and he hastened forward to overtake her ; but, as the proverb has it, there is much between the cup and the lip. A part of the footpath ran through a young plantation, and this planta- tion Ann Graham was just entering when observed by Peter. He also had entered the wood when his progress was arrested for a moment by the sudden sound of voices. It was Ann's voice, and it reached his ear in tones of anger and reproach ; and these were tones so new to him, as proceeding from one whom he regarded as all gentleness and love, that he stood involuntarily still. The words he could not distinguish ; hut, after halting for an instant, he pushed softly but hastily for- ward, and heard the voice of the young laird reply — "A rose-bud in a fury, by the goddessas! — Nay, frown not, fairest," continued he, throwing his arm around her, and adding — " WImt pity that so delicate a form Should be devoted to tlic rude embrac* Of some indecent clown ! '* Peter heard this, and muttered an oath or an ejaculation which we will not write. " Sir," said Ann indignantly, and struggling as she spoke, " if you have the fortune of a gentleman, have, at least, the decency of a man." "Nay, sweetest; but you, having the beauty of an angel, have the heart of a woman." And he tried to kiss her cheek. "Laird Horslie!" shouted Peter, as if an earthquake had burst at the heels of the squire — " hands oflf!— I say, hands off! " Now, Peter did not exactly suit the action to the word ; for, while he yet exclaimed, "hands off! " he, with both hands, clutched the laird by the collar, and hurling him across the path, caused him to roll like a ball against the foot of a tree. " Fellow ! " exclaimed Horslie, furiously, rising on his knee, and rubbing his sores — " Fellow ! " interrupted Peter — " confound ye, sir, dinna fellow me, or there'll be fellin' in the way. You can keep yer farm, and be hanged to ye ; and let me tell ye, sir, if ye were ten thousand lairds, if ye dared to lay yer ill faur'd lips on a sweetheart o' mine, I wad twist yer neck about hke a turnip-shaw ! — Come awa, Annie, love," added he, tenderly, " and be thankfu' I cam in the way." Before they entered the house, he had obtained her con- sent to their immediate union ; but the acquiescence of the old skipper was stlU wanting ; and when Peter made known his wishes to him — "Belay!" cried the, old boy ; " not so fast. Master Peter; a craft such as my girl is worth a longer run, lad. Time enough to take her in tow wlien you've a harbour to moor her in. Master Peter. There may be other cutters upon the coast, too, that will give you a race for her, and that have got what I call shot in their lockers. So you can take in a reef, my lad ; and, if you don't like it, why — helm about — that's all." " Captain Graham," said Peter, proiidly and earnestly, "I both understand and feel your remarks; and, but for Ann's sake, I would resent them also. But, sir, you are a faither — you are an affectionate one — dinna be a deluded one. By a side-wind, ye hae flung my poverty in my teeth ; but, sir, if I hae poverty, and Laird Horslie riches, I hae loved yer dochter as a man — he seeks to destroy her like a villain." " 'Vast, Peter, 'vast ! " cried the old man ; " mind I am Ann's father — tell me what you mean." " I mean, sir, that ye hae been hoodwinked," added the other — "that ye hae been flung aff yer guard, and led to the precipice o' the deep dark sea o' destruction an' dis- grace ; that a villain has hovered round yer house, like a hawk round a wood-pigeon's nest, waiting an opportunity I to destroy yer peace for ever ! Sir, to use a phrase of 20 TALES OF THE BOKDEKS. yer ain, wad ye behold yer dochter driven a ruined wreck upon the world's bleak shore, the discarded property o' the lord o' the manor ? If ye doubt me, as to the rascal's inten- tions, ask Ann hersel." " 'Sdeath, Peter, man !" cried the old tar , " do ye say that the fellow has tried to make a marine of me ? — that a lubber has got the weathergage of Bill Graham ? CaU in Ann." Ann entered the room where her father and Peter sat. " Ann, lore," said the old man, " I know you are a true girl ; you know Squire HorsHe, and you know he comes here for you ; now, tell me at once, dear — I say, tell me what you think of him ?" " I think," replied she, bursting into tears — " I knorv he is a villain !" ■ " You know it !" returned he ; " blow me, have I har- boured a shark ! What ! the salt water in my girl's eyes, too ! If I thought he had whispered a word in your ear, but the thing that was honourable — hang me ! I would warm the puppy's back with a round dozen with my own hand." '•■ You have to thank Peter," said she, sobbing, " for rescuing me to-night from his unmanly rudeness." " What I saved you from his rudeness ! — you didn't tell me that, Peter ; well, well, my lad, you have saved an old sailor from being drifted on a rock. There's my hand — forgive me — get Ann's, and (iod bless you !" AVithin three weeks, all was in readiness for the wedding. At Foxlaw, old Betty was, as she said, up to the elbows in preparation, and Robin was almost as happy as his son : for Ann was loved by every one. It was Jlonday evening, and the wedding was to take place next day. Peter was tec much of a sportsman, not to have game upon the table at his marriage feast. He took his gim, and went among the fields. He had traversed over the fifty acres of Foxlaw in vain, when, in an adjoining field, the property of his rival, he perceived a full-gro^vn hare holding his circuitous gambols. It was a noble-looking animal. The temptation was irresistible. H« took aim; and the next moment boimded over the low hedge. He was a dead shot ; and he had taken up the prize, and was holding it, survej-ing it before him, when Mr Horslie and his gamekeeper sprang upon him, aad, ere he was aware, their hands were on his breast. Angry words passed, and words rose to blows. Peter threw the hare over his shoulders, and left the squire and his gamekeeper to console each other on the ground. He returned home ; but nothing said he of his second adventure with Laird HorsHe. The wedding-day dawned ; and, though the village had no b»Us to ring, there were not w,anting demonstrations of rejoicing ; and, as the marriage .party passed through its little street to the manse, cliiloren shouted, women waved ribbons, and smUed, and every fowling-piece and pistol in the place sent forth a joyful noise ; yea, the village Vulcan him- self, as they passed his smithy, stood -with a rod of red-hot iron in his hand, and having his stithies ranged before him like a battery, and charged with powder, saluted them with a rustic but hearty ^eM d'joie. There was not a countenance but seemed to bless them. Peter was the very picture of manly joy — Ann of modesty and love. They were within five yards of the manse, where the minister waited to pro- nounce over them the charmed and holy words, when Squire Horslie's gamekeeper and two constables intercepted the party. " You are our prisoner," said one of the latter, pro^"cing bis warrant, and laying his hand upon Peter. Peter's cheek grew pale ; he stood sUent and motionlesss, as if palsy had smitten hia very soul. Ann uttered a short, sudden scream of despair, and fell senseless at the feet of the " best-man." Her cry of agony recalled the bride- groom to instant consciousness ; he started round — he raised her in his arms, he held her to his bosom. " Ann ! —my ain Ann !" he cried ; " look up — oh, louk up, dear ! It is me, Ann ! — they cauna. they daurna harm me." Confusion and dismay took possession of the whole party, " What is the meaning o' this, sirs .'" said Robin Pater, son, his voice half choked with agitation ; " what has my son (lone, that ye choose sic an untimeous hour to bring a warrant against him .''" " He has done, old boy, what will give hnn employment for seven years," said the gamekeeper, insolently. " Cou. stables, do your duty." " Sirs," said Robin, as they again attempted to lay hands upon his son, " I am sure he has been guilty o' nae crime — leave us noo, an', whatever be his offence I, his faither, will be answerable for his forthcoming to the last penny in my possession." " And I will be bail to the same amr.unt master con- stables," said the old skipper ; " for, blow me, d'ye see, if there an't black work at the bottom o' this, and somebody shall hear about it, that's aU." Consciousness had returned to the fair bride. She threw her arms around Peter's neck — " They shall not — no, they shall not take you from me !" she exclaimed. " No, no, dear," returned he ; " dinna put yerseF abo ut." The minister had come out of the manse, and offered to join the old men as security for Peter's appearance on the following day. "To the denl with your bail! — you are no justices master constables," replied the inexorable gamekeeper — " seize him instantly." " Slave !" cried Peter, raising his hand and grasping the other by the throat. " Help ! help, in the king's name !" shouted the provincial executors of the law, each seizing him by the arm. " Be quiet, Peter, my man," said his father, clapping his shoulder, and a tear stole down his cheek as he spoke ; " dinna mak bad worse." " A rescue, by Harry ! — a rescue !" cried the old skipper. " No, no," returned Peter — " no rescue ; if it cam to that, I wad need nae assistance. Quit mv arms, sirs, and I'll accompany ye in peace. Ann, love — fareweel the noo, sn Heaven bless you, dearest ! — but dinna greet, hinny — dinna greet !" And he pressed his lips to hers. " Help her, faither— ;- help her," added he; " see her hame, and try to comfort her.'' The old man placed his arm tenderly round her waist — she clung closer to her bridegroom's neck ; and, as they gently lifted up her hands, she uttered a heart- piercing, and, it seemed, a heart-broken scream, that rang down the valley, like the wail of desolation. Her head dropped upon her bosom. Peter hastily raised her hand to his lips ; then, turning to the myrmidons of the law, said sternly — " I am ready, sirs ; lead me where you will." I might describe to you the fears, the anguish, and the agony of Peter's mother, as, from the door of Foxlaw, she beheld the bridal party return to the village. " Bless me. are they back already ! — can onvthing hae happened the minister .''" was her first exclamation ; but she saw the vil- lagers collecting around them in silent crowds ; she beheld the women raising their hands, as if stricken with dismay ; the joy that had greeted them a few minutes before was dead, and the very children seemed to follow in sorrow " Oh, bairn !" said she to the serving maid, who stood beside her, " saw ye e'er the like o' yon ? Rin doun an' see what's happened ; for my knees are sinking under me." The next moment she beheld her husband and Captain Graham sup- porting the unwedded bride in their arms. They approached not to Foxlaw ; but turned to the direction of the Captain's cottage. A dimness came over the mother's eyes — for a mo- ment they sought her son, but found him not " GraciouB Heaven !" she cried, wTinging her hands, " what s this come owre us !" She rushed forward — the valley, the village, and the joyless brid;il party, floated round before her — her heart was sick with agony, and she feD with her face upon the e.irth. The next day found Peter in Greenlaw jail, Ue had not TALES OF THE BORDERS. 21 only Leon defected in the act of poaching ; hut a violent assault, aa it was terineJ, against one of his Majest/s Jus- tices of the Peace, was proved against him ; and, before his father (h: his friends could ^-isit hini, he was hurried to Loith, and placed on board a frigate about to sail from the Eoads. He was made of sterner stuff than to sink benenth oppression; and, though his heart yearned for (ho mourning bride from whose arms he had been torn, and he found it hard to brook the imperious commands and even insolence of men " dressed in a Lttle brief authority;" yet, as the awkwardness of a landsman began to wear away, and the tumult of his feelings to subside, his situation became less disagreeable ; and, before twelve months had passed, Peter Paterson was a favourite with every one on board. At the time we speak of, some French privateers had annoyed the fishing smacks employed in carrying salmon from Scotland to London ; and the frigate on board of which Peter had been sent, was cruising to and fro in quest of thera. One beautiful summer evening, when the blue sea was smooth as a mirror, the winds seemed dead, and the very clouds slept motionless beneath the blue sky, the fri- gate lay becalmed in a sort of bay within two miles of the shore. ^V ell was that shore known to Peter ; he was fami- liar with the appearance of every rock — with the form of every hill — with the situation of every tree — T\'ith the name of every house and its inhabitants. It was the place of his birth ; and, before him, the setting sun shed its evening rays upon his father's house, and upon the habitation of her ■whom be regarded as bis wife. He leaned anxiously over the proud bulwarks of the vessel, gazing till his imprisoned Boul seemed ready to burst from his body, and mingle with tlie objects it loved. The sun sank behind the hills — the big te;irs swelled in his eyes — indistinctness gathered over the shore — he ^vrung his hands in silence and in bitterness. He muttered in agony, the name of his parents, and the name of her he loved. He felt himself a slave. He dashed bis hand against his forehead — " O Heaven !" he exclaimed aloud, " thy curse upon mine enemy !" " Paterson !" cried an officer, who nad obserred him, and overheard his exclamation ; " are you mad i" See him l)elow " continued he, addressing another seaman ; " the fellow appears deranged " " [ am not mad, your honour," returned Peter, though his look and his late manner almost belied his words ; and, briefly telling his story, he begged permission to go on shore. The frigate, however, was considered as his prison, and his place of punishment ; when sent on board, he had been described as " a dangerous character" — his recent bitter prayer or imprecation went far in confirmation of that description ; and his earnest request was refused. Darkness silently stretched its dull curtain over earth and sea — still the wind slept as a cradled child, and the evening star, like a gem on the bosom of night, threw its pale light upon the land. Peter had again crept upon the deck ; and, while tlie tears yet glistened in his eyes, he gazed eagerly towards the shore, and on the star of hope and of lore. It seemed like a lamp from Heaven suspended over his father's house — tlie home of his heart, and of his childhood. He felt as though it at once ini-ited him to the scene of his young affections, and lighted the way. For the first time, the gathering te.ars rolled down his cheeks. He bent his knees — he clasped his hands in silent prayer — one desperate resolution had taken possession of his soul ; and the next rriomeiH lie descended gently into the silent sea. He dived by the side of the vessel ; and, ascending at the distance of about twenty yards, strained every nerve for the shore. It was about day-dari-n, when Robin Paterson and his wife were aroused by the loud barking of their farm-dog ; but the sound suddenly ceased, as if the watch- dog were familiar with the intruder ; and a gentle tapping was heard at ttie window of the room where tUcy slept. " ■^Tia's there ?" inquired Rotty. " A friend — an old friend," was replied in a low and seemingly disguised voice. But there was no disguising the voice of a lost son to a mother's ear. " Robin ! Robin !" she exclaimed — •'• it is him I — Oh, it is Aim .' — Peter ! — my b.-iirn !" In an instant, the door flew open, and Peter Paterson stood on his parents' heartli, with tlieir arms around hia neck, while their tears were mingled together. After a brief space wasted in hurried exclamations, in- quiries, and tears of joy and surprise — " Come, hinny," said the anxious mother, " let me get ye changed, for ye're wet tlirough and through. Oh, come, my man, and we'll heai a' thing by and by — or ye'U get yer death o' cauld, foi ye're droukit into the very skin. But, preserve us, bairn J ye hae neither a hat to yer head, nor a coat to yer back! O Peter, hinny, what is't — what's the matter.' — tell me what's the meaning o't." " O mother, do not ask me ! — I have but a few minutes to stop. Faither, ye can understand me — I maun go back to the ship again ; if I stay, they will be after me." "0 Peter! — Peter, man!" exclaimed Robin, weeping aa he spoke, and pressing his son's hand between his — " what's this o't ! — yes, yes, yer faither understands ye ! But is it no possible to hide .'" " No, no, faither !" replied he — " dinna think o't." " O bairn !" cried Betty, " what is't ye mean > Wad ye leave j'er mother again .-' Oh ! if ye kenned what I've suffered for yer sake, ye wadna speak o't." " O mother!" exclaimed Peter, dashing his hand before his face, " this is worse than death ! But I must ! — I must go back, or they would tear me from you. Yet, before I do go, I would see my poor Ann." " Ye shall see her — see her presently," cried Betty ; " and baith her and yer mother will gang doun on oor knees to )'e, Peter, if ye'U promise no to leave us." " Haste ye, then, Betty," said Robin, anxiously; " ria awa owre to Mr Graham's as quick as ye can ; for, though ye no understand it, I see there's nae chance for poor Peter but to tak horse for it before the sun's up." Hastily the weeping mother flew towards Mr Graham's. Robin, in spite of the remonstrances of his son, went out to saddle a horse on which he might fly. The sun had not yet risen when Peter beheld his mother, bis betrothed bride, and her father, hurrying towards Foxlaw. He rushed out to meet them — to press the object of his love to his heart. They met — their arms were flung around each other. A loud huzza burst from a rising ground between them and the beach. The old skipper started round. He beheld a boat's crew of the frigate, with their pistols levelled towards himself, his unhappy daughter, and her hapless bridegroom ! " O Ann, woman !" exclaimed Peter, wildly, " this it terrible ! it is mair than flesh and blood can st;uid !" " Peter ! O Peter 1" cried the WTetched girl, clinging around him. The party from the frigate approached them. Eve.n their hearts were touched. " From my soul, I feel for you, Paterson," said the lieu- tenant commanding them ; " and I am sorry to see these old people and that lovely girl in distress ; but you know I must do my duty, lad.'' " Sir I Sir !" cried his mother, wringing her hands, and addressing the lieutenant, " if ye hae a drap o' compassion in yer heart, spare my puir bairn ! O Sir ! I implore ye, as ve wad expect mercv here or hereafter, dinna tear him frae the door o' the mother that bore him." " Good woman," replied the officer, " your son must go with us ; but I shall ao all that I can to render his puoisA. j ment as light ss possible.'' 22 TALES OF THE BORDERS. Ann uttered a shriek of horror. "Punishment ! " exclaimed Betty, grasping the arm of the lieutenant — "O Sir, what do ye mean by punishment? Surely, though your heart was harder than a nether mill- stane, ye couldna be sae cruel as to hurt my bairn for comin' to see his ain mother." " Sir," said Kobin, " my son never intended to rin awa frae your ship. He told me he was gaun to return immediately — I assure ye o'that. But, sir, if ye could only leave him, and if siller can do onything in the case, ye shall hae the savings & thirty years, an' a laither's blessing into the bargain." " Oh, ay, sir, ! " cried his mother ; " ye shall hae the last penny we hae i' the world — ye shall hae the very stock off the farm, if ye'U leave my bairn ! " The officer shook his head. The sailors attempted to pinion Peter's arms. "'Vast there, shipmates! 'vast!" said Peter, sorrowfully; " there is no need for that ; had I intended to run for it, you would not have foiind me here. Ann, love " — he added — his heart was too full for words — he groaned — he pressed his teeth upon his lip — he wrung her hand. He grasped the hands of his parents and of Mr. Graham — he burst into tears, and in bitterness exclaimed, " Farewell ! " I will not describe the painful scene, nor paint the silent agony of the father, the heart-rending lamentations of the bereaved mother, nor the tears and anguish of the miserable maiden who refused to be comforted. Peter was taken to the boat, and conveyed again to the frigate. His officers sat in judgment upon his offence. He begged to be heard in his defence, which was granted. " I know, your honours," said Peter, " that I have been guilty of a breach of discipline ; but I deny that I had any intention of running from the service. Who amongst you that has a heart to feel, would not, under the same circum- stances, have acted as I did ? Who that has been torn from a faither's hearth, would not brave danger, or death itself, again to take a faither by the hand, or to fling his arms around a mother's neck? Or who that has plighted his heart and his troth to one that is dearer than life, would not risk life for her sake ? Gentleman, it becomes not man to punish an act which Heaven has not registered as a crime. You may flog, torture, and degrade me — I do not supplicate for mercy — but will degradation prompt me to serve my king more faithtuUy ? I know you must do your duty, but I know also you will do it as British officers — as men who have hearts to feel." During this address, Peter had laid aside his wonted pro- vincial accent. There was an evident leaning amongst the officers in his favour, and the punishment they awarded him was a few days' confinement. It was during the second war between Britain and the United States. The frigate was ordered to the coast of Newfoundland. She had cruised upon the station about three months ; and, during that time, as the seamen said — " not a lubber of the enemy had dared to shew his face — there was no life going at all ; " and they were becoming impatient for a friendly set-to with their brother Jonathan. It was Peter's watch at the mast-head. "A sail! — a Yan- kee ! " shouted Peter. A sort of wild hurra burst from his comrades on the deck. An officer hastily ascended the rigging to ascertain the fact. "AU's right," he cried — "a sixty-gun ship, at least." " Clear the deck, my boys," cried the commander ; " get the guns in order — active — be steady, and down upon her." Within ten minutes, all was in readiness for action. "Then down on the deck, my lads," cried the captain; " not a word amongst you — give them a British welcome." The brave fellows silently knelt by the guns, glowing with impatience for the command to be given to open their fire upon the enemy. Tlie Americans seemed nothing loath to meet them half way. Like winged engines of death rushing to shower destruction on each other, the proud ves- sels came within gunshot. The American opened the first fire upon the frigate. Several shot had passed over her, and some of the crew were already wounded. Still no word escaped from the lips of the British commander. At length he spoke a word in the ear of the man at the helm, and the next moment the frigate was brought across the bow of the enemy. "Now, my lads," cried the captain, "now give them it." An earthquake seemed to burst at his words — the American was raked fore and aft, and the dead and dying, and limbs of the wounded, strewed her deck. The enemy quickly brought their vessel round — then followed the random gun, and anon the heavy broadsides were poured into each other. For an hour the action had continued, but victory or death seemed the determination of both parties. Both ships were crippled, and had become almost unmanage- able, and in each equal courage and seamanship were dis- played. It was drawing towards nightfall, they became entangled, and the word " to board ! " was given by the commander of the frigate. Peter Paterson was the first man who, cutlass in hand, sprang upon the deck of the American. He seemed to possess a lion's strength, and more than a lion's ferocity. In a few minutes, four of the enemy had sunk beneath his weapon. " On, my hearties ! — follow Paterson ! " cried an officer ; " Peter's a hero ! " Fifty Eng- lishmen were engaged hand to hand with the crew of the American ; and for a time they gained ground ; but they were opposed with a determination equal to their own, and, over- powered by a superiority of numbers, they were drijen back and compelled to leap again into the frigate. At the moment his comrades were repulsed Peter was engaged with the first lieutenant of the American — " Stop a minute ! " shouted Peter, as he beheld them driven back ; " keep your ground till I finish this feUow ! " His request was made in vain, and he was left alone on the enemy's deck ; but Peter could turn his back upon no man. " It lies between you and me now, friend," said he to his antagonist. He had sliivered the sword of the lieutenant by the hilt, when a Yankee seaman, armed with a crowbar, felled Peter to the deck. Darkness came on and the vessels separated. The Ameri- cans were ffinging their dead into the sea — they lifted the body of Peter. His hands moved — the supposed dead man groaned. They again placed him on the deck. He at length looked round in bewilderment. He raised himself on his side. " I say, neighbours," said he to the group around him, "is this our ship or yows?" The Americans made merry at Peter's question. " Well," continued he, " if it be yours, I cau only tell you it was foul play that did it. It was a low, cowardly action, to fell a man behind his back ; but come face to face, and twa at a time if ye like, and I'll clear the decks o' the whole ship's crew o' you." "You are a noble fellow," said the lieutenant whom he had encountered, " and if you will join our service, I guess your merit shan't be long without promotion." " What ! " cried Peter, " raise my right hand against my ain country! Gude gracious, sir! I wad sooner eat it as my next meal ! " In a few weeks the vessel put into Boston for repairs ; and on her arrival, it was ascertained that peace had been con- cluded between the two countries. Peter tound himself once more at liberty ; but with liberty he found himself in a strange land, without a sixpence in his pocket. This was no enviable situation to be placed in, even in America, and he was standing, on the second morning after his being put on shore, in a friendless and forlorn condition, when a person accosted him — "Well, my lad, how is the new world using you?" Peter started round — it was his old adversary the Ueutenant TALES OF THE BORDERS. 23 " A weel-filled pocket, sh-, returned Peter, " will mak either the new warld or the auld use you weel ; and willi- out that, I reckon your usage in eitlitT the ane or the itlicr jvad be naething to niak a sang about." The lieutenant pulled out liis purse — " I am not rich, Paterson," said he ; " but, perhaps, I can assist a brave man in need." Peter was prevailed upon to accept a few dollars. lie knew that to return to Berwickshire was again to throw himself into the power of his persecutor, and he communed with himself what to do. He could plough — he could man- «ge a farm — he was master of all field-work ; and, within a veek, lie engaged himself as a farm-servant to a proprietor in the neighbourhood of Charleston. lie had small reason, however, to be in love with liis new employment. Peter was proud and high-minded, (in the Engli.sh, not the Ame- rican acceptation of the word,) and he found his master an imperious, avaricious, republican tyrant. The man's conduct ill-accorded with his professions of universal liberty. Mis wish seemed to be, to level all do^vn to his own standard, that he might the more easily trample on all beneath him. His incessant cry, from the rising of the sun until its setting, was, " Work ! work I" anci with an oath he again called upon his servants to " work I" lie treated them as beasts of burden. " Work ! hang ye, work I" and a few oaths, seemed to be the principal words in the man's vocabulary. Peter had not been overwrought in the frigate — he had been his own master at Fo.xlaw — and, when doing liis utmost, he hated to hear those words everlastingly rung in his ear. But he had another cause for abhorring his employment ; his master had a number of slaves, on whom he wreaked the full measure of his cruelty. There was one, an old man, in par- ticular, on whom he almost every day gratified his savageness. Peter had beheld the brutal treatment of the old negro till he could stand it no longer ; and one day, when he was vainly imploring the man who called himself the owner of his flesh for mercy, Peter rushed forward, he seized the savage by the breast, and e.xclaimcd — " Confound ye, sir, if I see ye itrike that poor auld black creature again, I'll cleave ye to the chin." The slave-owner trembled with rage. " What !" said ne — " it's a fine thing, indeed, if we've wollopped the Eng- lish for liberty, and, after all, a man an't to have the liberty of wollopping his own neeger !" He drew out his purse, and flung Peter's wages contemp- tuously on the ground. Peter, stooping, placed the money in liis pocket, and, turning towards Charleston, proceeded along the bridge to Boston. He had seen enough of tiUing another man's fields in America, and resolved to try his for- tune in some other way, but was at a loss how to begin. 1 have already told you how Peter's mother praised his deli- very in his debate with the schoolmaster ; and Peter himself tliought that he could deliver a passage from Shakspeare in a manner that would make the fortune of any hero of the sock and buskin ; and he was passing along the l\Iall, counting the number of trees in every row, much in the same man- ner, and for the same reason, as he had formerly counted the islands in the harbour, when the thought struck him that the Americans were fond of theatricals ; and he resolved to try the stage. He called at the lodgings of the manager in Franklin Place. He gave a specimen of his abilities ; and, at a salary of eighteen dollars a-week, Peter Paterson was engaged as leader of the " heavy business" of the Boston corps dramatique. The tidings would have killed his mother. Lear was chosen as the part in which he was to make his first appearance. The curtain was drauTi up. " Peter, what would your mother say ?" whispered his conscience, as he looked in the glass, just as the bell rang and the prompter called him ; and what, indeed, would Betty Pater- son have said to have seen her o\vn son Peter, with a red cloak, a painted face, a grey wig, and a white beard falling on his breast ! Lear — Peter — entered Ue looked above, below, and around him. Tlie audience chipped their h.inds, shouted, and clapped their hamle again. It was to cheer the new performer. Peter thought they would bring down the theatre. The lights dazzled his eyes. The gallery be- gan to swim — the pit moved — the boxes appeared to wave backward and forward. Peter became pale through tlie very rouge that bedaubed his face, and sweet, cold as icicles, rained down his temples. The shouting ar.d the clapping of hands was resumed — he felt a trembling about his limbs — he endeavoured to look upon the audience — he could discern only a confused mass. The noise again ceased. "Attend France Burgundy heml Glos- ter !" faltered out poor Peter. The laughter became louder than the clapping of hands had been before. The manager led Peter olf the stage, paid him the half of his week's salary, and wished him good-by. It is unnecessary to tell you how Peter, after this disappointment, laid out eight dol- lars in the purchase of a pack, and how, as pedlar, he tra- velled for two years among the Indians and back-settlers of Canada, and how he mode money in his new calling. He had written to his parents and to Ann Graham ; but, in his unsettled way of life, it is no wonder that he had not rtceived an answer. He had written again to say, that, in the course of four months, he would liave to be in New York in the way of business — for Peter's pride would not permit him to acknowledge that he carried a pack — and if they addressed their letters to him at the Post-ofiice there, he would re- ceive them. He had been some weeks in New York, and called every day, with an anxious heart, at the Post-oflice. But his time was not lost ; he had obtained many rare and valuable skins from the Indians, and, with his shop upon his back, he was doing more business than the most fashionable store-keeper in the Broadway. At length, a letter arrived. Peter hastily opened the seal, which bore the impress of his mother's tlrimble, and read: — "My dear bairn, — This comes to inform ye that baith your faither and me are weel — thanks to the Giver o' a' good — and hoping to find ye the same. O Peter, liinny, could ye only come hame — did you only ken what sleepless nights I spend on your account, ye wad leave America as soon as ye get my letter. I wonder that ye no ken that Ann, poor woman, an' her faither an' her mother, an' the family, a' gaed to about America mair than a year and a half syne, and I'm surprised ye haena seen them." " Ann in America !" cried Peter. He was unable to read the remainder of his mother's letter. He again flung his pack upon his shoulder, but not so much to barter and to sell, as to seek his betrothed bride. He visited almost every city in the States, and in the provinces of British America. He advertised for her in more than fifty news- papers ; but his search was fruitless — it w;ls " Love's la- hour lost." Yet, during his search, the world prospered with Peter. His pack had made him rich. He opened a store in New York. He became also a shareholder in canals, and a proprietor of steam-boats ; in short, he was looked upon as one of the most prosperous men in the city. But his heart yearned for his native land ; and Peter Paterson, Esq., turned his property into cash, and embarked for Liverpool. Ten long years had passed since the eyes of Betty Paterson had looked upon her son ; and she was busied, on a winter day, feeding her poultry in the barn-yard, when she observed a post-chaise drive through the village, anf' begin to ascend the hill towards Foxlaw. " Preserve us, Robin !" she cried, as she bustled into the house, "there's a coach comin' liere — what can folk in a coach want wi' the like o' us .'' Ilaud awa out an' see what they want, till I fling on a clean mutch an' an apron, an' raak mysel wiselike." " I watna wha it can be," said Robin, as he rose and went towards the door. The chaise drew up — a tail genteel-looking man alighted 24 TALES OF THE BOKDESS. from it — at the first glance he seemed nearly forty years of age, but he was miich younger. As he approached Robin started back — his heart sprang to his throat — his tongue faltered. " Pe — Pe — Peter I " he exclaimed. The stranger leaped forward, and fell upon the old man's neck. Betty beard the word Peter! — the clean cap fell from her hand, she uttered a scream of joy, and rushed to the door, her grey hairs falling over her face ; and the next moment her arms encircled her son. I need not tell you of the thousand anxious questions of the fond mother, and how she wept as he hinted at the misfortunes he had encountered, and smiled, and wept, and grasped his hand again, as he dwelt upon his prosperity. " Did I no aye say," exclaimed she, " that I would live to see my Peter a gentleman ? " "Yet, mother," said Peter, " riches cannot bring happi- ness — at least not to me, while I can hear nothing of poor Ann. Can no one tell to what part of America her father went? — for I have sought them everywhere." ''Oh, forgie me, hinny," cried Betty bitterly; "it was a mistake o' yer mother's a'thegither. I understand now, it wasna America they gaed to ; but it was Jamaica, or come ca, and we hear they're back again." "Not America 1" said Peter: "and back again 1 — then where— where shall I find her ? " " When we wrote to you, that, after leaving here, they had gaen to America," said Robin, "it was understood they had gaen there — at ony rate, they went abroad some- way — and we never heard till the other week, that they were back to this country, and are now about Liverpool, where I'm very sorry to hear they are very ill off; for the warld, they say, has gaen a' wrang wi' the auld man." This was the only information Peter could obtain. They were bitter tidings ; but they brought hope with them. "Ye were saying that ye was in Liverpool the other day," added his mother ; " I wonder ye didna see some o' them." Peter's spirit was sad, yet he almost smiled at the sim- plicity of his parent ; and he resolved to set out in quest of his betrothed on the following day. Leaving Foxlaw, we shall introduce the reader to Spar- ling Street, in Liverpool. Amongst the miserable cellars where the poor are crowded together, and where they are almost without light and without air, one near the foot of the street was distinguished by its outward cleanliness ; and in the window was a ticket with the words — " A Girts School kept here hy A. GRAnAM." Over this humble cel- lar was a boarding-house, from which, ever and anon, the loud laugh of jolly seamen rang boisterous as on their own element. By a feeble fire in the comfortless cellar sat an emaciated and apparently dying man ; near him sat his wife, engaged in making such articles of apparel as the slop-dealers send to the West Indies, and near the window was a pale but beautiful young woman, instructing a few children in needle-work and the rudiments of education. The children being dismissed, she began to assist her mother; and, addressing her father, said — " Come, cheer up, dear father — do not give way to de- spondency — we shall see better times. Come, smile now, and I will sing your favourite song." " Heaven bless thee, my own sweet child ! " said the old man, while the tears trickled down his cheeks. " Thou wilt sing to cheer me, wilt thou?— bless thee! — bless thee! It is enough that, in my old age, I eat thy bread, my child ! —sing not!— sing not!— there is no music now for thy fa- ther's heart." "Oh, speak not — think not thus," she cried tenderly; "you make me sad too." "I would not make thee sad, love," returned he, "bat it is hard— it is very hard— that after cruising till I had made a fortune, as I may say, and after being anchored in safety, to be tempted to make another voyage, where my all was ivrecked — and not only all -ivrecked, but my httle ones too — thy brothers and thy sisters, Ann — to see them struck down one after another, and I hardly left where-with to bury them — it is hard to bear, child! — and, worse than all, to be knocked up like a useless hulk, and see thee and thy mother toiling and killing themselves for me — it is more than a father's heart can stand, Ann." " Nay, repine not, father," said she : " He who tempereth the wind to the shorn lamb, will not permit adversity to press on us more hardly than he gives us strength to endure it. Though we suffer poverty, our exertions keep us above want." The old woman turned aside her head and wept. "True, dear," added he, "thy exertions keep us from charity ; but those exertions my child will not long be able to make — I see it — I feel it ! And, oh, Ann, shall I see thee and thy mother inmates of a workhouse — shall I hear men call thy father. Bill Graham, the old pauper ?" The sweat broke upon the old man's brow from his ex- citement; his daughter strove to soothe him, and, with an assumed playfulness, commenced singing Skinner's beauti- ful old man's song, beginning — • " Ob, why should old age so much wound us ! " Now, Peter Paterson had been several days in Liverpool, anxiously inquiring for Captain Graham, but without ob- taining any information of him or of his daughter, or where they dwelt. Again and again he had wandered along the docks ; and he was disconsolately passing up Sparling Street when the loud revelry of the seamen in the boarding-house attracted his attention. It reminded him of old associa- tions ; he paused for a moment, and glanced upon the house, and, as the pealing laughter ceased, a low, sweet voice, pour- ing forth a simple Scottish air, reached his ear. Peter now stood still. He listened — " That voice ! " he exclaimed audi- bly, and he shook as he spoke. He looked down towards the cellar — the ticket in the window caught his eye. lie read the words, "^ GirVs School kept here, bi/ A. GRAnASi." " I have found her 1 " he cried, clasping his hands together. He rushed down the few steps, he stood in the midst of them — "I have found her!" he repeated, as he entered. His voice fell like a sunbeam on the cheerless heart of the fair vocalist. " Peter ! — my own " — she exclaimed, starting to her feet. She could not utter more ; she would have fallen to the ground, but Peter caught her in his arms. I need not describe the scene that followed: that night they left the hovel which had served as a grave for their misfortunes. Within a week they had arrived at Foxlaw, and within a month old and young in the village danced at a joyful wedding. I may only add that, a few weeks after his marriage, Peter read in the papers an advertisement, headed—" Upset Pkice Greatly Reduced — Desirable Property in the neighbourhood of Foxlaw," &c It was the very farm now offered for sale of which Peter was to have become a tenant some twelve years before, and was the remnant of the estates of the hopeful Laird Horslie ; and Peter became the purchaser. The old skipper regained his wonted health and cheerfulness; and Betty Paterson lived to tell her grandchildren, " she aye said their faither wad be a gentleman, and her words cam true." Even the old schoolmaster, who had styled him "Ne'er-do-weel Peter," said he "had aye predicted o' Mr. Paterson, even when a callant, that he would turn out an extraordinary man." WILSON'S fDislovt'tnl, llvnljiu'onnrii, nnb linaginntibc TALES OF THE BORDERS. THE TEODIGAL SON. Toe early sun was melting away the coronets of grey cloiids on the brows of the mountains, and the lark, as if proud of its plumage, and surveying itself in an illuminated mir- ror, carolled over the bright water of Keswick, when two strangers met upon the side of the lofty Skiddaw. Each carried a small bag and a hammer, betokening that their common errand was to soarcli for objects of geological in- terest. The one appeared about fifty, tlie other some twenty years younger. There is something in the solitude of the everlasting hills which makes men, who are strangers to each other, despise the ceremonious introductions of the drawing- room. So was it with our geologists — their place of meet- ing, their common pursuit, produced an instantaneous familiarity. They spent the day, and dined on the moun- tain-side together. They shared the contents of their flasks with each other ; and, ere they began to descend the hill, they felt, the one towards the other, as though they had been old friends. They had begun to take the road towards Keswick, when the elder said to the younger — " My meet- ing with you to-day recalls to my recollection a singular meeting which took place between a friend of mine and a stranger about seven years ago, upon the same mountain. But, sir, I will relate to you the circumstances connected with it ; and they might be called the history of the Prodi- gal Son." He paused for a few moments, and proceeded: — "About thirty years ago, a Mr Fenwick was possessed of property in Bamboroughshire worth about three hundred per annum. He had married while young, and seven fair children cheered the hearth of a glad father and a happy mother. Many years of joy and of peace had flown over them, when Death visited their domestic circle, and passed his icy hand over the cheek of their first-born ; and for five successive years, as their children opened into manhood and womanhood, the unwelcome visitor entered their dwelling, till of their little flock there was but one, the youngest, left. And, O sir, in tha leaving of that one, lay the cruelty of Death — to have taken him, too, would have been an act of mercy. His name was Edward, and the love, the fondness, and the care which his parents had borne for all their children, were concentrated on him. His father, whose soul was stricken with affliction, yielded to his every wish ; and bis poor mother ' Would not permit Tlie winda of heaven to visit bis cbeek too roughly.' But you shall liear how cruelly he repaid their love — how murderously he returned their kindness. He was headstrong and wayward; and, though the small, still voice of affection was never wholly silent in his breast, it was stifled by the storm of his passions and propensities. His first manifesta- tioQ of open viciousness was a delight in the brutal practice 4. Vol. I. of cock-fighting; and he became a constant attender at every 'main' that took place in Northumberland. He was a habitual 'bettor,' and his losses were frequent; but hitherto his father, partly through fear, and partly from a too tender affection, had supplied him with money. A 'main' was to take place in the neighbourhood of Morpeth, and he was present. Two noble birds were disfigured, the savage in- struments of death were fixed upon them, and they were pitted against each other. 'A hundred to one on the Fel- ton Grey r shouted Fenwick. 'Done! for guineas!' re- plied another. 'Done! for guineas! — Done!' repeated the prodigal — and the next moment the Felton Grey lay dead on the ground, pierced through the skull with the spur of the other. He rushed out of the cockpit—' I shall expect pay- ment to-morrow, Fenwick,' cried the other. The prodigal mounted his horse, and rode homeward with the fury of a madman. Kind as his father was, and had been, he feared to meet him or tell him the amount of his loss. His mother perceived his agony, and strove to soothe him. 'What is't that troubles thee, my bird?' inquired she; ' come, tell thy mother, darling.' With an oath he cursed the mention of birds, and threat- ened to destroy himself '0 Edward, love!' cried she, 'thou wilt kill thy poor mother — what can I do for thee?' 'Do for mel' he exclaimed wildly, tearing his hair as he spoke — ' do for me, mother ! — get me a hundred pounds, or my heart's blood shall flow at your feet.' ' Child ! child 1 ' said she, ' thou hast been at thy black trade of betting again 1 — thou wilt ruin thy father, Edward, and break thy mother's heart. But give me thy hand on't, dear, that thou'lt bet no more, and I'U get thy father to give thee the money.' 'My father must not know,' he exclaimed; 'I will die rather.' 'Love! love!' replied she; 'but without asking thy father, where could I get thee a himdred pounds?' 'You have some money, mother,' added he; 'and you have trinkets— jewellery !' He gasped, and hid his face as he spoke. 'Thoushalt have them !— thou shalt have them, child!' said she, ' and all the money thy mother has — only say thou wilt bet no more. Dost thou promise, Edward — oh, dost thou promise thy poor mother this?' 'Yes, yesl' he cried. And he burst into tears as he spoke. He received the money, and the trinkets, which his mother had not worn for thirty years, and hurried from the house, and with them discharged a portion of his dishonour- able debt. He, however, did bet again; and I might tell you how he became a horse-racer also; but you shall hear that too. He was now about two and twenty, and for several years he had 2& TALES OF THE BORDERS been acquainted with Eleanor flobinson — a fair being, made up of gentleness and love, if ever woman was. She was an orphan, and had a fortune at her own disposal of three thou- sand pounds. Her friends had often warned her against the dangerous hahits of Edward Fen^viek. But she had given him her young heart — to him she had plighted her first vow — and, though she beheld his follies, she trusted that time and affection would wean him from them ; and, with a heart full ol hope and love, she bestowed on him her hand and fortune. Poor Eleanor ! her hopes were vain, her love un- worthily bestowed. Marriage produced no change on the habits of the prodigal son and thoughtless husband. For weeks he was absent from his own house, betting and carous- ing with his companions of the turf; while one vice led the way to another, and, by almost imperceptible degrees, he unconsciously sunk into aU the habits of a profligate. It was about four years after his marriage, when, accord- ng to his custom, he took leave of his wife for a few days, to attend the meeting at Doncaster. 'Good-by, Eleanor, dear,' said he, gaily, as he rose to depart, and kissed her cheek ; ' I shall be back within five days.' ' Well, Edward, said she, tenderly, ' if you will go, you must — but think of me, and think of these our little ones.' And, with a tear in her eye, she desired a lovely boy and girl to kiss their father. ' Now, think of us, Edward,' she added ; ' and do not bet, dearest — do not bet !' ' Nonsense, duck I nonsense !' said he ; ' did you ever see me lose?— do you suppose that Ned Fenwick is not 'wide awake.''' I know my horse, and its rider too — Barrymore's Highlander can distance everything. But, if it could not, I have it from a sure hand — the other horses are all ' safe' Do you understand that — eh ?' *No, I do not understand it, Edward, nor do I wish to understand it," added she; ' but, dearest, as you love me — as you love our children — risk nothing.' ' Love you, little gipsy ! you know I'd die for you,' said he — and, with all his sins, the prodigal spoke the truth. ' Come, Nell, kiss me again, my dear — no long faces — don't take a leaf out of my old mother's book ; you know the saying — ' Never ventm-e never win — faint heart never won fair ladye !' Good-by, love — 'by Ned — good-by mother's •iarling,' said he, addressing the children as he left the house. HereachedDoncaster; he had paidhisguineafor admission to the betting-rooms; he had whispered with, and slipped a fee to all the shrivelled, skin-and-bone, half melted little manikins, called jockeys, to ascertain the secrets of their horses. ' All's safe !' said the prodigal to himself, rejoicing in his heart. The great day of the festival — the important St Leger — arrived. Hundreds were ready to back Highlander against the field — amongst them was Edward Fenwick ; he would take any odds— he did take them — he staked his all. 'A thousand to five himdred on Highlander against the field,' he cried, as he stood near a betting-post. ' Done !' shouted a mustachioed peer of the realm, in a barouche by his side. 'Done!' cried Fenwick, 'for the double, if you like, my lord.' ' Done !' added the peer ; ' and I'll treble it if you dare !' ' Done !' rejoined the prodigal, in the confidence and excitement of the moment — ' Done ! my lord.' The eventful hour arrived. There was not a fidse start. The horses took the ground beautifully. High- lander led the way at his ease ; and his rider, in a tartan jacket and mazarine cap, looked confident. Fenwick stood near the winning-post, grasping the rails with his hands ; he was still confident, but he could not chase the admoni- tion of his wife from his mind. The horses wore not to be SEen. His very soul became like a solid and sharp-edged substance within his breast. Of the twenty horses that Btfirted, four again appeared in sight. ' The tartan yet ! ttie tartan yet 1' shouted the crowd. Fenvrick raised his eyes — he was blind with anxiety — he could not discern them; still he heard the cry of ' The tartan ! tlie tartan !' and his heart sprang to his mouth. ' Well done, orange ! — the orange will have it !' was the next cry. He again looked up, but he was more blind than before. • Beautiful 1 — beautiful ! Go it, tartan ! Well done, orange !' shouted the spectator.'? ; ' a noble race ! — neck and neck ; six to five on the orange !' He became almost deaf as well as blind. ' Now for it ! — now for it ! — it won't do, tartan ! — hurra ! hurra ! — orange has it !' ' Liar !' exclaimed Fenvrick, starting as if from a trance, and grasping the spectator who stood next him by the throat — ' I am not mined !' — In a moment he dropped his hands by his side, he leaned over the railing, and gazed vacantly on the ground. His flesh writhed, and his soul groaned in agony. ' Eleanor ! — my poor Eleanor !' cried the prodigal. The crowd hurried towards the winning-post — he was k-f t alone. The peer ■(vith whom he had betted, came behind him ; he touched him on the shoulder with his whip— ' Well, my covey !' said the nobleman, ' you have lost it.' Fenwick gazed on him with a look of fury and despair and reppated — ' Lost it ! — I am ruined — soul and body ! — wife and children ruined !' ' Well, Mr Fenwick,' said the sporting peer, ' I sup- pose, if that be the case, you won't come to Doncaster again in a hurry. But my settling day is to-morrow — j-ou know I keep sharp accounts, and if j-ou have not the ' readi/' at hand, I shall expect an equivalent — you understand me.' So sa}'ing, he rode off, leaving the prodigal to commit sui- cide if he chose. It is enough for me to tell you that, in his madness and his misery, and from the influence of what he called his sense of honour, he gave the winner a bill for the money — payable at sight. Sly feelings will not permit me to tell you hov/ the poor infatuated madman more than once made attempts upon his o>vn life ; but the latent love of his wife and of his children prevailed over the rash thought, and, in a state bordering on insanity, he presented himself before the beings he had so deeply injured. I might describe to you how poor Eleanor wxts sitting in their little parlour, ■with her boy upon a stool by her side, and her little girl on her knee, telling them fondly that their father would he home soon, and anon singing to them the simple nursery rhyme— * Hush, my babe, baby bunting. Your father's at the buutine,' &c; when the door opened, and the guilty father entered — his hair clotted — his eyes rolling with the mildness of despair, and the cold sweat raining doAvn his pale cheeks. ' Eleanor ! Eleanor !' he cried, as he flung himself upon a sofa. She placed her little daughter on the floor — she flew towards him — ' My Edward ! — oh, my Edward !' she cried — ' what is it, love } — somethhig troubles you !' ' Curse me, Eleanor !' exclaimed the wretched prodigal, turning his face from her ; ' I have ruined you ! — I have ruined my children ! — I am lost for ever !' ' No, my husband !' exclaimed the best of wives, ' youi Eleanor will not curse you. Tell me the worst, and I \vill bear it — cheerfully hear it, for ray Edward's sake.' ' You will not — you cannot,' cried he ; ' I have sinned against you as never man sinned against woman. Oh ! if you would spit upon the very ground where I tread, I would feel it as an alleriation of my sufl'erings — but your sympathy your aifection, makes my very soul destroy itself! — Eleanor I — Eleanor ! — if you have mercy, hate me — tell me — shew me that you do !' ' O Edward ! said she, imploringly, ' was it thus when your Eleanor spurned every ofl'er for your sake, when yoo pledged to her everlasting love ? She has none but you, and can you speak thus i* O husband ! if you will forsake me, TALES OF THE BORDERS. 27 orjiate not my poor children. Tell mo ! only tell me the worst — and I will rejoice to endure it with my Edward!' 'Then,' cried Fenwick, 'if you will add to my misery hy professing to love a WTetcli like me — know you are a be<;g:ir I — and I have made you one ! — Now, can you share beggary with me?' She repeated the word ' Beggary 1' — she clasped her hands together — for a few moments she stood in silent anguish — her bosom heaved — the tears gushed forth — she flung her iirras around her husliand's netdc — ' Yes!' she cried, 'I can meet even beggary with my Edward!' 'O Heaven !' cried the prodigal, 'would that the e;irth would swallow me ! — I cannot sfcind this !' I will not dwell upon the endeavours of the fond, forgiv- ing wife, to soothe and to comfort her unworthy husband ; nor yet will I describe to you the anguish of the prodigal's father and of his mother, when they heard the extent of his folly and of his guilt. Already he had cost the old man much, and, with a heavy and sorrowful heart, he proceeded to his son's house, to comfort "his daughter-in-law. When he entered, she was endeavouring to cheer her husband with a tune upon the harpsichord — though. Heaven knows, there was no music in her bre;ist, save that of love — endur- ing love ! ' Well, Edward,' said the old man, as he took a seat, ' what is this that thou hast done now ?' The prodigal was silent. ' Edward," continued the grey-haired parent, ' I have had deaths in my family — many deaths, and thou knowest it — but I never had to blush for a child but thee 1 I have felt sorrow, but thou hast added shame to sorrow' ' father !' cried Eleanor, imploringly, ' do not upbraid my poor husband.' The old man wept — he pressed her hand, and, with a CToan, said — ' I am ashamed that thou shouldst call me father, sweetest ; but, if thou canst forgive him, I should. He is all that is left me — all that the hand of death has spared me in this world ! Yet, Eleanor, his conduct is a living death to me — it is worse than all that I have suffered. UTien affliction pressed heavily upon me, and, year after yeiir, I followed my dear children to the grave, my neighbours sympathised with me — they mingled their tears ^vith mine ; but now, child — oh, now, I am ashamed to hold up my head amongst them ! O Edward, man ! if thou hast no regard for thy father or thy heart-broken mother, hast thou no atTection for thy poor vrife .'' — canst thou bring her and thy helpless children to ruin i" — But that, I m.iy say, thou hast done already I Son ! son ! if thou wilt murder thy parents, hast thou no mercy for thine own flesh and blood ? — wilt thou destroy thine own offspring.? O Edward I if there be any sin that I will repent upon my deathbed, it will be that I have been a too-indulgent father to thee — that I am the author of thy crimes !' ' No, father ! no !' cried the prodigal ; ' my sins are my own ! I am their author, and ray soul carries its own pun- ishment ! Spurn me ! cast me off !^-disown me for ever ! — it is all I ask of you I You despise me — hate me too, and 1 will be less miserable !' ' O Edward !' said the old man, ' thou art a fiither, but little dost thou know a father's heart ! Diso^vn thee ! Cast thee off, s.ayest thou ! As soon could the ffraves of thy brothers give up their dead ! Never, Edward ! never ! O son, wouldst thou but reform thy w.ays — wouldst thou but become a husband worthy of our dear Eleanor ; and, after all the suffering thou hast brought upon her, and the shame thou hast brought upon thy family, I would part with my last shilling for thee, Edward, though I should go into the workhouse myself.' You are affected, sir — I ■will not harrow up yotir feelings by further describing the interview between the father and iis son. The misery of the prodigal was remorse not peni- tence. It is sufficient for me to say, that the old man tnoli a heavy mortgage on his pro[)erty, and Edward Fenwiik commenced business as a wine and spirit merchant in New- castle. But, sir, be did not attend upon businean ; and 1 need not tell you that such being tlie case, Inisiness waa too proud a customer to attend upon liim. Neitlier did he forsake his old habits, and, witliin two years, lie became involved — deeply involved. Already, to sustain his tottering credit, his father had been brought to the verge of ruin. During his residence in liamborouglishire, he had become acquainted with many individuals carrying on a contraband trade with Holland. To amend his desperate fortunes, he recklessly embarked in it. In order to obtain a part in the owner- ship of a lugger, he used hisj'iil/ier's name I This was the crowning evil in the prodigal's drama. He made the voyage himself. They were pursued and overtaken when attempt- ing to effect a landing near the Coquet. He escaped. But the papers of the vessel bespoke her as being chiefly the property of his father. Need I tell you that this was h finishing blow to tlie old man' Edward Fenwick had ruined his wife and family — he had brought ruin upon his father, and was himself a fugitive. He was pursued by the law — he fled from them ; and he would have fled from their remembrance, if he could. It was now, sir, that the ^vrath of Heaven was showered upon the head, and began to touch the heart of the prodigal. Like Cain, he was a fugitive and a vagabond on the face of the earth. For many months he wandered in a distant part of the country ; his body was emaciated and clothed with rags, and hunger preyed upon his very heart-strings. It is a vulgar thing, sir, to talk of hunger — but they who have never felt it, know not what it means. He was fainting by tlie wayside, his teeth were grating together, the tears were rolling down his cheeks. ' The servants of my father's house, he cried, ' have bread enough, and to spare, while I perish with hunger;' and, continuing the language of the prodigal in the Scriptures, he said — ' I will arise and go unto my father, and say, 1 have sinned against Heaven, and in thy sight.' With a slow and tottering step, he arose to proceed on his journey to his father's house. A month had passed — for every day he made less progress — ere the home of his infancy appeared in sight. It was noon, and, when he saw it, he sat down in a little wood by a hill-side, and wept, until it had become dusk ; for he was ashamed of his rags. He drew near the house, but none came forth to welcome him. With a timid hand he rapped at the door, but none answered him. A stranger came from one of the out-houses and inquired — ' Whit dost thou want, man .''' ' Mr Fenwick,' feebly answered the prodigal. ' Why, naebody lives there,' said the other, ' and auld Fenwick died in Morpeth jail, niair than three months sin' !' ' Died in Morpeth jail !' groaned the miserable being, and fell against the door of the house that had been his father's. ' I tell ye, ye cannot get in there,' continued the other. ' Sir,' replied Edward, ' pity me — and, oh, tell me, is not Mrs Fenwick here — or her daughter-in-law .-'' ' I knaw noughts about them,' said the stranger ; ' I'm put in charge here by the trustees.' Want and misery kindled all their fires in tlie breast of the fugitive. He groaned, and, partly from exhaustion partly from agony, sank upon the ground. The other hftec him to a shed, where cattle were wont to be fed. Hi> lips were perched, his languid eyes rolled vacantly. ' W ater ! give me water !' he muttered, in a feeble voice ; and a c up ol water was brought to him. He gazed wistfully in the face of the person who stood over him — he would have Eisked for bread ; but, in the midst of his sufl^erings, pride was yet strorg in his heart, and he could not. The stranger, how- ever, was not wholly destitute of humani ty. 28 TALES OF THE BORDERS. ' Poor wretch !' said be, ' ye look very fatigued ; dow ye think yc cud eat a bit bread, "if I were gie'n it to tliee ?' Tears gathered in the lustreless eyes of the prodigal ; but he could not speak. The stranger left him, and, returning, placed a piece of coarse bread in his hand. He ate a morsel ; but his very soul was sick, and his heart loathed to receive the food for lack of which he was perishing. Vain, sir, were the inquiries after his wife, his children, nnd his mother ; all that he could learn was, that they had kept their sorrow and their shame to themselves, anJ had left Northumberland together, but where, none knew. He also learned that it was understood amongst liis acquaintances that he had put a period to his existence, and that this belief was entertained by his family. IMonths of ^vretchedness fol- lowed, and Fenwick, in despair, enlisted into a foot regi- ment, which, within twelve months, was ordered to embark for Egypt. At that period, the British were anxious to hide the remembrance of their unsuccessful attack upon Cadiz, and resolved to wrench the ancient kingdom of the Pharoahs from the grasp of the proud armies of Napoleon. The cabi- net, therefore, on the surrender of Malta, having seconded the views of Sir Ralph Abercrombie, several transports were fitted out to join the squadron under Lord Keith. In one of those transports, the penitent prodigal embarked. You are too young to remember it, sir ; but at that period a love of country was more widely than ever becoming the ruling passion of every man in Britain ; and, with all his sins, his follies, and his miseries, such a feeling glowed in the breast of Edward Fenwick. He was weary of existence, and he longed to listen to the neighing of the war-horse, and the shout of its rider, and as they might rush on the invulner- able phalanx, and its breast-work of bayonets, to mingle in the ranks of heroes ; and, rather than pine in inglorious grief, to sell his life for the welfare of his country ; or, like the gallant Graham, amidst the din of war, and the confusion of glory, to forget his sorrows. The regiment to which he belonged, joined the main army off the Bay of Marmorice, and was the first that, with the gallant Moore at its head, on the memorable seventh of Jlarch, raised the shout of victory on the shores of Aboukir. In the moment of victory, Fenwick fell wounded on the field, and his comrades, in their triumph, passed over him. He had some skill in surgery, and he was enabled to bind up bis wound. He was fainting upon the burning sand, and he was creeping amongst the bodies of the slain, for a drop of moisture to cool his parched tongue, when he perceived a small bottle in the hands of a dead officer. It was half filled with wine — he eagerly raised it to his lips — ' Eng- lishman !' cried a feeble voice, ' for the love of Heaven ! give me one drop — only one ! — or I die !' He looked around — a French officer, apparently in the agonies of death, was vaiidy endeavouring to raise himself on his side, and stretch- ing his hand towards him. ' Why should I live !' cried the wxetched prodigal ; ' take it, take it, and live, if you desire life f He raised the wounded Frenchman's head from the sand — he placed the bottle to his lips — he untied his sash, and bound up his wounds. The other pressed his hand in gratitude. They were conveyed from the field together. Fenwick was unable to follow the army, and he was dis- abled from continuing in the service. The French officer recovered, and he was grateful for the poor service that had been rendered to him ; and, previous to his being sent off Tith other prisoners, he gave a present of a thousand francs to the joyless being whom he called his deliverer. I have told you that Fenwick had some skiU in surgery — he had studied some years for the medical profession, but abandoned it for the turf and its vices. He proceeded to Alexandria, where he began to practise as a surgeon, and, amongst an ignorant people, gained reputation. Blany years passed, and he had acquired, if not riches, at least an inde- pendency. Repentance also had penetrj>*"d his soul, He had inquired long and anxiously after his family. He had but few other relatives ; and to all of them he had anxiously written, imploring them to acquaint him \\ith the residence of the beings whom he had brought to ruin, but whom he still loved. Some returned no answer to his applications, and others only said that they knew nothing of his wife, of his mother, or of his children, nor whether they yet Uved ; all they knew was, that they had endeavoured to hide the shame he had brought upon them from the world. These words were daggers to his bruised spirit ; but he knew he deserved them, and he prayed that Heaven would grant hira the consolation and the mercy that was denied him on earth. Somewhat more than seven years ago, he returned to hia native country ; and he was wandering on the very moun- tain where, to-day, I met you, when he entered into conver- sation with a youth apparently about three or four ana twenty years of age ; and they spent the day together as we have done. Fenwick was lodging in Keswick, and as, towards evening, they proceeded along the road together, they were overtaken by a storm. ' You must accompany me home,' said the young man, ' until the storm be passed — my mother's house is at hand.' — And he conducted him to j'onder lonely cottage, whose white walls you perceive peering through the trees by the water-side. It was dusk when the youth ushered him into a little parlour where two ladies sat ; the one appeared about forty, the other three- score and ten. They welcomed the stranger graciously. He ascertained that they let out the rooms of their cottage to visiters to the lakes, during the summer season. He expressed a wish to become their lodger, and made some observations on the beauty of the situation. ' Yes, sir,' said the younger lady, ' the situation is, in- deed, beautiful ; but I have seen it when the water, and the mountains around it, could impart no charm to its dwellers. Providence has, indeed, been kind to us ; and our lodgings have seldom been empty ; but, sir, when we entered it, it was a sad house indeed. My poor mother-in-law and myself had experienced many sorrows ; yet my poor fatherless chil- dren — for I might call them fatherless' — and she wept as she spoke — ' with their Innocent prattle, soothed our afflic- tion. But my little Eleanor, who was loved by every one, began to droop day by day. It was a mnter night — the snow was on the ground — I heard my little darling give a deep sigh upon my bosom. I started up. I called to mv poor mother. She brought a light to the bedside — and I found my sweet child dead upon my breast. It was a long and sad night, as we sat by the dead body of my Eleanor, with no one near us ; and, after she was buried, my poor Edward there, as he sat by our side at night, would draw forward to his knee the stool on which his sister sat — while his grandmother would glance at him fondly, and push aside the stool with her foot, that I might not see it; — but I saw it all.' The twilight had deepened in the little parlour, and its inmates could not perfectly distinguish the features of each other ; but, as the lady spoke, the soul of Edward Fenwick glowed within him — his heart throbbed — his breathing became thick — the sweat burst upon his brow. ' Pardon me, lady!' he cried, in agony ; ' but, oh 1 tell me your name ^ ' Fenwick, sir,' replied she. ' Eleanor I my injured Eleanor !' he exclaimed, flinging himself at her feet ; ' I am Edward, your guilty husband ! — Mother ! can you forgive me ? My son ! my son 1 inter- cede for your guilty father !' Ah, sir, there needed no intercession — their arms were around his neck — the prodigal was forgiven ! Behold," con- tinued the narrator, " yonder, from the cottage, comes the mother, the wife, and the son of whom I have spoken ! I will introduce you to them — you shall -witness the happiness and penitence of the prodigal — you must stop with me to-night — 5',art not, .sir — I am Edward Fenwick the Prodigal Son 1" TALES OF THE BORDEIIS. 29 SIR PATRICK HUME, A TALE OF THE HOUSE OF MARCHMONT. Sin Patrick Hume of Polwarth was elected representative of the county of IJerwick in tlie year IfifJS, lieing then in the twenty-iifth ye;ir of liis H'le. He was a lover of free- dom, a lover of his country, and a stanch Presbyterian. In those days, however, a love of freedom was a dangerous principle either to avow or to carry into Parliament. The tyrant Charles, whom some falsely call the Merry Monarch, was then attemptiiifj to rule the empire with a rod of iron. You have all heard of liis Long Parliament, and of his after- wards governing the country, like an absolute tyrant, with- out a Parliament at all. Fettered and servile as Parliaments then were, young Ilumo had boldly stood forward as the advocate of civil and religious liberty ; and, when the arbi- trary monarch sent down a mandate to Scotland for a levy of men and of money, that he might carry his plans of despotism the more etfectually into execution. Sir Patrick resisted the slavishness with which it was about to he obeyed. " What !" exclaimed he, "are we mere instruments in the hands of the King — creatures appointed to minister to his pleasure ? Are we not representatives of the people of Scot- land — the representatives of their wants and their wishes, and the defenders of their rights — and shall we, as such, at the mere nod of a monarch, drag them from following their plough in the valley, or attending their hlrsels on the hill — shall we do these things, and lay contributions on their cattle, on their com, and on their cofi'ers, merely because his Blajesty wills it .•■ Pause, my countrymen. The King has no authority to compel such a measure, and it can only be rendered legal by the concurrence of the assembled representatives of the people." " Treason !" vociferated the Duke of Lauderdale, who was the arch-minion of Charles — ' before the Parliament of Scotland, I denounce Sir Patrick Hume as a dangerous man — as a plotter against the life and dignity of our sovereign lord the King !" " What," exclaimed Sir Patrick, indignantly fixing his •yes upon Lauderdale, " though there may be amongst us a slave who would sell his country for a royal smile, I still hope that this is a fueb Parliament, and it concerns all the members to be free in what concerns the nation." From that day. Sir Patrick Hume became a suspected aian, and the eyes of the King's creatures were upon him ; and when, two years afterwards, Charles endeavoured to put down the people by the sword, and establish garrisons throughout the country, again the laird of Polwarth stood foremost in the ranks of opposition, and resisted his power. The King accordingly ordered his pri^-y council to crush so dangerous a spirit, and Sir Patrick was confined in Stirling Cistle, where, with tlie exception of a short interval, he was imprisoned for two years. Britain had long been distracted with the pretended dis- covery of fabulous or ridiculous plots against the royal family; and the perjury of paid miscreants, like the infamous Titus Oates, was causing the scaffolds to run with blood. But tvTanny being glutted with Catholic blood, and the extin- guishing of what were called Popish plots, the myrmidons of Charles (who lived a libertine, and died a Papist) pro- fessed that they had discovered a Protestant plot against his royal person. In this plot, the incorruptible Algernon Syd- ney, Lord Russell, IMr Bailie of Jerviswoode, and Sir Patrick Hume, were included. They beheld their common country «vitliering and wasting oeneath the grasp of a tyrant ; and true it is they had united together to restore it to freedom, but they were innocent of designs against his Ufe, or even of a wish to dethrone him. They did not, however, act suf- 6cientl V in concert, an d were unable to bring their plans into operation. A price was ^'•'^ "!'"" ^l^eir heads — some fled into exile, and others sought refuge on the mountain and in the wilderness, while the amiable Russell died upon ilio scalluld. It was near niglitfall, in the month of So])tember ICIi"}, when Jan\ie Winter, who was joiner on the estate of Pol- warth, ran breathless up to Uedbraes Castle, and knocked loudly at the door. It was o|)ened bv John Allan, the land- steward, who, perceiving his agitation, intjuircd — " In the name o' gudeiiess, Jamie, what's happened, what do ye want .''" " iJinna ask, Maisto- Allan," replied Jamie, " but, (or Heaven's sake, tell me — is Sir Patrick at liame ? — and let me speak to him presently, as ye value his life." " Follow me then, Jamie," said the other, "and come ir quietly, that the servants mayna observe onytliing extraor- diiiar' — for we live in times when a man canna trust his ain britber." The honest joiner was ushered into a room where Sir Patrick sat in the midst of his family, acting at once as their schoolmaster and their playmate. " Weel, James," said the laird, " I understand ye hae been at Berwick the day — ye've got early back — what uncos heard ye there .''" " I watna. Sir Patrick," replied the other ; " now-a-days, I think there's naething unco that can happen. Satan seems to have been let loose on our poor misgoverned country. But I wish to speak to your honour very particularly, and in private, if yoti please." " You may speak on, James," said the laird — " I am pri- vate in the midst o' my ain family." " Wi' your guid leave, sir," returned the cautious servant, " I wad rather the bairns *'ere oot o' the way, for what I hae to say is no proper for them to hear, and the sooner ye are acquainted wi' it the better." Sir Patrick led his younger children out of the room, but requested Lady Polwarth and their eldest daughter, Grizel, a lovely dark-haired girl, about twelve years of age, to remain " You are the bearer of evil tidings, James," said he, ss he returned, " but you may tell them now — it is meet that my wife should hear them, if they concern me; and," added he, taking Grizel's hand in his, " I keep no secrets from mv little secretary." " God bless her !" said James, " she's an auld-farraiit bairn, as wise as she's bonny, I ken that. But, your honour, I am, indeed, the bearer of evil tidings. A party o' troopers arrived at Berwick this morning, and it was nae secret there that they would be baitli at Jerviswoode and Redbraes before midnight. I heard them talk o' the premium that was set upon your life, and slipped out o' the town immediately, without performing a single transaction, or speaking a word to a living creature. How I've got along the road is mair than I can tell, for I was literally sick, blind, and desperate wi' grief. I've this minute arrived, and whatever can be done to save you, maun be done instantly." Lady Polwarth burst into tears. Sir Patrick grasped the hand of his faithful servant. Little Grizel gazed in her father's face with a look of silent despair, but neither spoke nor wept. " Oh, fly tly instantly, my dear husband!" cried Lady Polwarth, " and Heaven direct you." " Be composed, my love," said Sir Patrick ; ' I fear thai flight is impossible ; but some means of evading them may ■perhaps be devised." ' O my leddy," said Jamie Winter, " to flee is out o' the question a'thegither. Government has its spies at ever\ turn o' the road — in every house in the country — even it this house. Our only hope is to conceal Sir Patrick : Ui' how or where is beyond my comprehension." Many were the schemes devised by the anxious wife — J many the snggestions of ber husband and honest Jaroio pio- 30 TALES OF THE BORDERS. posed numerous plans — Lut each was, in its turn, rejected as i)eing unsafe. More than an hour had passed in these anxious deliberations ; within three hours more, and the King's troops would be at his gate. Orizcl had, till now, remained silent, and dashing away the first tear that rolled doi^Ti her cheek, she flung her arras around her father's neck, and exclaimed, in an eager and breathless whisper — " I ken a place, faither — I ken a place that the King's troopers and his spies vnW never find out ; and I'll stop beside ye, to bear ye company." " Bless my bairn !" said Sir Patrick, pressing her to hig breast ; "and where's the place, dearest ?" " The aisle below Polwarth kirk, fiiithcr," returned Grizel — *' nae trooper will find out such a hidingplace ; for the mouth's a bit wee hole, and the long grass, and the docks, and the nettles grow over it, and 1 could slip out and in without trampling them down ; and naebody would think o' seekinj ye there, faither." Lady Polwarth shuddered, and Sir Patrick pressed the cheek of his lovely daughter to his lips. " Save us a',baim !" said Jamie, " there's surelysomething no earthly about yer young leddyship, for ye hae mair sense than us a' put thegither. The aisle is the very place. Til steal awa, an' hae a kind o' bed put up in it, an' tak other twa or thre bitso' necessary things ; and, Sir Patrick, ye'll slip out o' the house an' meet me there as soon as possible." Within an hour. Sir Patrick had joined Jamie AVinter in the dark and dismal aisle. The humble bed was soon and silently fitted up, and the faithful servant, wishing his master ' farewell," left him alone in his dreary prison-house. Slow and heavilr the hours of darkness moved on. He heard the trampling of the troopers' horses galloping in quest of him. The oaths and the imprecations of the riders fell distinctly on his ears. Amidst such sounds he heard them mention his name. But his heart failed not. lie knelt do^vn upon the cold damp floor of his hidingplace — upon the bones of his fathers — and there, in soundless, but earnest prayer, suppli- cated his fatlier's God to protect his family — to save his covintry — to forgive his persecutors, and to do with him as seemed good in His sight. He arose ; and, laying himself upon his cold and comfortless bed, slept calmly. He awoke shivering and benumbed. Faint streaks of light stole into the place of death through its narrow aperture, dimly re- vealing the ghastly sights of the charnel-house, and the slow reptiles that crawled along the floor. Again night came on, and the shadows of light, if I may use the expression, which revealed his cell, died away. A second morning had come, and a second time the feeble rays had been lost in utter dark- ness. It was near midnight, and the slender stock of provi- sions which he had brought with him were nigh exhausted. He Btarted from his lowly couch — he heard a rustling among the weeds at the mouth of the aisle — he heard some one endea- vouring to remove the fragment of an old gravestone that covered it. " Faither '." whibpered an eager voice — " faither — it is me — yer ain Grizel !" " IVIy own, devoted, my matchless child !" said Sir Patrick, stretching his hand? towards the aperture, and »eceiving her in his arms. She sat down beside him on the bed — she detailed the search of the troopers — she stated that they were watched ID their own house — that a spy was set over the very victuals that came from their table, lest he should be concealc"', near, and fed by his family. " But what of that ?" continued the Ught-hearted an i heroic girl ; " wh ile my plate is supplied, my faither's sha II not be empty ; ai id here," added she, laughing, " here is a flask of wine, cak es, and a sheep's head. But I will tell y« a t story about the sheep's head. It was placed on a plal e before me at dinn er-time. The servant was out o' the rooi i, naebody was looking, and I whupped it into my aproi i. Little Sandy wanted a piece, and, turn ng round toe it, w,d missing the head — ' Ah ! mother !' he cried, ' our Grizzy has swallowed a sheep's head, bones an a, in a moment.'' ' AV'heesht, laddie !' said my mother ; ' eat ye i:ext ane then. ' Oh, ye greedy Grizzy !' said Sandy, shaking his little nieve in my face ; ' I'll mind you for this.' ' I'm sure Sandy will ne'er forget me,' said I, and slipped away out to hide the sheep's head in my own room ; and as soon as I tho ught naebody was astir, 1 creeped out quietly by the window and got down here behint the hedges — and I'U come every night, faither. But last night the troopers were stiU about theh ouse " In spite of his misery. Sir Patrick laughed at the ingenuity of his beloved and heroic daughter ; then wept and laughed again, and pressed her to his bosom. lie had passed many weeks in this cheerless dungeon, with no companion during the day save a volume of Buchanan's Psalms, but every night he was visited by his intrepid daughter, who at once supplied him with food, and beguiled the hours of his solitude. He was sitting in the gloomy cell, conning over his favourite volume — the stone at the aperttire had been pushed aside a few inches to admit the light more freely, and the weeds at the entrance werf now bowed down and withered by the frost — a few boys were playing in the churchyard, and tossing a ball against the kirk. Being driven from the hand of an unskilful player, it suddenly bounded into the aisle. Sir Patrick started, and the book dropped from his hand. Immediately the aperture was surrounded by the boys, and the stone removed. They stood debating who should enter, but none had sufficient courage. At length, one more hardy than the rest vclunteered to enter, if another would follow him. The laird gave himself up as lost, for he knew that even the tale of a schoolboy would eflfect his ruin. He was aware he could disperse them with a single groan ; but even that, when told to nis enemies, might betray him. At length three agreed to enter, and the feet of the first already protruded into tlie aisle. SirPatrick crept silentlyto its farthest comer, when the grufi^voice of theold grave-digger reached his ears, shouting — " The mischiefs in the callants, an' nae guid ; what are ye doing there .'' Do ye want the ghaists o' the auld Humes aboot yer lugs ?" The boys fled amain, and the old man came growling to the mouth of the aisle. " The deei-il's in the baims o' Polwarth," said he ; " for they would disturb the very dead in their graves. I'll declare they've the stane frae the mouth o' the aisle !" He stooped down, and Sir Patrick saw his grim visage through the aperture, and heard him thus continue his soli- loquy, as he replaced the stone — " Sorrow tak the hands that moved the stane ! — ye're hardly worth the covering up again, for ye're a profitless hole to me ; and I fancy him that I should lay in ye next, be he where he likes, will gang the gate that his frecnd, Baihe, gaed yesterday on a scaffold. A grave-digger's a puir business, I am sorry to say, in otir King's reign ; an the fient a ane thrives but the common executioner." So saj-ing, he enveloped Sir Patrick in utter darkness. That night Grizel and her father left the aisle together, and from her he learned the particulars of what he had heard muttered by the grave-digger, that his friend, Mr Bailie of Jerviswoode, had been executed the previous day. Disguised, and in the character of a surgeon, he, by by- "vays, reached London, and from thence fled to France. On t le death of Charles, and when the bigot James ascended tlie tl Tone, SirPatrickwasoneof the leadersof the bandof patriots M bo drew their swords in behalf of a Protestant succession That enterprise was unsuccessful ; and, after contending, ai nost singlc-h.-mdcd, against the enemies of his religion .an i his country, he and his family sought refuge in a foreign lasd. He assumed the name of Dr Peter Wallace, and the f took up their abode in Utrecht. Th< re, poverty aad TALES OF THE BORDERS. 81 prir.ifions goup;lit and found the exiles. Thej had parted with every domestic, and the lovely Grizcl was the solo •ervant and helper of her motlier, and, when their work was done, the assistant of her father in the education of tlic younger children ; for he had no longer the means of pro- viding them a tutor. Yet theirs was a family of love — a family of happiness — mid poverty purified their aflTections. But their romittances from Scofhuid were not only scanty but uncertain. Till now, Sir Patrick had home Lis misfor- tunes with resignation and even checrlulness ; he cared not that he w;i3 stripped of attendants, and of every luxury of life ; yet, at times, the secret and unbidden tears would start into his ej-cs, as he beheld his wife and his fair daughter performing, without a murmur, the most menial offices. But the measure of his trials was not yet full — luxuries were not only denied him, but he was without food to set before his children. The father wept, and his spirit heaved with anguish. Grizel beheld liis tears, and she knew the cause. She spoke not; but, hastening to her little cabinet, she took from it a pair of jewelled bracelets, and, wrapping herself up in a cloak, she took a basket under her ami, and hurried to the street. The gentle being glided along the streets of Utrecht, with her eyes fixed upon the ground, and shunning the glance of the passengers, as if each knew her errand. She stood before a shop in which all manner of merchandise was exposed, and three golden balls were suspended over the door. She cast a timid gaze into the shop — thrice she passed and repassed it, and repeated the timid glance. She entered — she placed the bracelets upon the counter. "How much?" was the laconic question of the shopman. Grizel burst into tears, lie handed her a sum of money across the counter, and deposited the bracelets in his desk. She bounded from the shop with a heart and a step light as a young bird in its first pride of plumage. She hastened home with her basket filled. She placed it upon the table. Lady Pohvarth wept, and fell upon her daughter's neck. '' AVhere have 3'ou been, Grizel ?" fiiltered her father. " Purchasing provisions for a bauble," said she ; and the smile and the tear were seen on her cheek together. But many were the visits which the gentle Grizel had to pay to the Golden Balls, while one piece of plate was j-Iedged after anoihcr, that her father, and her mother, and her brethren, might eat and not die ; — and even then, the table of Sir Patrick, humble as it was, and uncertainly pro- vided for, was open to tlie needy of his countrymen. Thus . three years passed — the memorable 1(588 arrived. Sir Patrick was the friend, the counsellor, and supporter of King William — he arrived with him in England — he shared in his trlum|)li. He was created Lord Pohvarth, and appointed sheriff of Ber\\-ickshire ; and, in 1696, though not a la^vj-er, but an upright man, he was made Lord Chancellor of Scot- land, and created Earl of Marchmont, and Lord of Pol- warth, Rcdbraes, and Greenlaw. He was one of the most ardent promoters of the Union, and with it ceased his politi- cal career. In 1710, when the Tories came into power, the Earl being the stanchest Whig in Scotland, he was deprived of the office of sheiilF of Berwickshire, but was reinstated '.n 171s. His lady being dead, he came to take up his resi- dence in Berwick-upon-Tweed ; and there, when the heroic Grizel, who was now a ^vife and a mother, (being married to tlie son of his uiil'orl mate friend, Mr Bailie of Jervis- woode,) came with her children and friends to visit him for the last time, as they danced in the hall, though unable to walk, he desired to be carried into the midst of them, and beating time with his foot — " See, Grizel," exclaimed the old patriot, " though your father is unable to dance, he can stiil beat time with his foot." Shortly after this, he died in Berwick, on the 1st of Augiist 1724, in the eighty-third year of his age — leaWng behind him an example of piety, courage, and patriotism, worthy the imitation of posteriu CHARLES LAWSON. "Tak a faither's advice, Betty, my woman," said Andrew Weir to his only dtiughter, " tak a faither's advice, an avoid gaun blindlblded to your ruin. Ye are soon enough to marry these seven years yet. ilarry ! preserve us ! for I dinna ken what the generation Is turning to, but I'll declare bits o' lasses now-a-days haena the dolls weel out o' their arms till they tak a guidman by the hand. But abnon everj'thing earthly, I would impress it upon ye, bairn, thai ye canna be ower carefu' your company ; mind that a cha- racter is a' a woman has to carry her through the world, and ye should guard it like the apple o' yo*r e'e ; and re- member, that folk are aye judged o' frae the company they keep. Now, how often maun I warn ye no to be seen wi' Charles Lawson — he's a clever lad, nae doubt — naebody denies that ; but, O Betty, Betty, woman ! would ye only reflect that a' gifts are no graces ; and I am far mista'cn if he hasna a serpent's heart as weel as his tongue. He has naething o' the fear o' God before his een — ye canna deny that. In ae word, he is a wild, thoughtless ne'er-do-weel ; — an' I charge ye, I command ye, Betty, that ye ne'er spetik to him again in your born days ; or, if ye do, ye surely will hae but Uttle satisfaction to break your faither's heart, and bring him to the grave wi' sorrow and wi' shame — for that, Betty, that would be the end o't." Elizabeth beard him, and bent her head upon her bosom to conceal her confusion. The parental homily was too late — she was already the wife of Charles Lawson. Having thus begun our story in the middle, it is neces- sary that we go back and inform the reader, in a few words, tliat Andrew Weir was a respectable farmer on the north side of the Tweed, and, withal, a decent and devout Presby- terian, and an elder in the kirk. Charles Lawson's parents were originally from Northumberland. They had known better days, and, at the period we have alluded to, were struggling mth a hard farm in the neighbourhood of Andrew Weir's. Charles was not exactly what his father-in-law had described him ; and were we to express his portrait in a line, we should say, he had blue eyes and a broad brow, a goodly form and an open heart. The ringlets which parted on Elizabeth's forehead were like the ravens wing, and loveliness, if not beauty, nestled around the dimples on her cheeks. Theiraffectionforeachotherbeganinchildhood, and grew with their years, till it became strong as their existence. A few weeks after Andrew Weir had delivered the advice we have quoted to his daughter, Charles Lawson bade fixre- well to his parents, his wife, and his country, and proceeded to India, where a relative of his mother's had amassed a fortune, and who, while he refused to assist th m in thcit distress, had promised to make provision for their son. As we are not WTiling a novel in three volumes, we shall not describe the scene of their parting, and tell with what agony with what tears, and with what bitter words, Charles tore himself from his father, his mother, and his yet unacknow- ledged wife. The imagin.ation of the reader may supply the blank. Hope urged him to go — necessity compelled him. After his departure, Elizabeth drooped like an early lily beneath the influence of a rctuniing frost. There were whisperings among the matrons and maidens of the neigh- bouring village. "They who had formerly courted her society began to shun it ; and even the rude clown who lately stood abashed in her presence, approached her with indecent fami- harity. The fatal whisper first reached Andrew's ear at a meeting of the kirk-session of which he was a member. He returned home troubled in spirit, a miserable and ao humbled man, for his daughter had been his pride. Pool Elizabeth confessed that she was married, and attempted to 32 TALES OF THE BOilDERS. proTe what she affirmed. But this afforded no palliation of ber offence in the eyes oF her rigid and offended father. Oh^ what hae I heen liom to suffer !" cried he, stamping his feet upon the ground — " Oh, you witch o' Endor! — you Jezehel ! — you disgi-ace o' kith an' kin ! Could nae- thing — naething sei-vc ye but breaking yer puir auld faither's heart ? Get out o' my sicht ! — get out o' my sicht !" He remained silent for a few moments — the parent arose in his heart — -tears gathered in his eyes. " But ye are still my baimj" he continued. " Betty, Betty, woman ! what hae ye brought us to !" Again he was silent, and again proceeded — " But I forgie ye, Betty — yes, if naebody else will, yer faither will forgie ye for yer mother's sake, for ye are a' that I hae left o' her. But we canna baud up our heads again, in this pairt o' the country — that's impos- sible. I've king thought o' gaun to America, an' now I'm driven till't." He parted with his farm, and in the ensuing spring pro- ceeded with his daughter to Canada. We shall not enter upon his fortunes in the new world — he was still broken in spirit — and, after twelve years' residence, he was neither richer nor happier than when he left Scotland. Elizabeth was now a mother, and the smiles of her young son seemed to shorten the years of her exile ; yet, ever as she returned his smile, the thought of the husband of her youth flashed back on her remembrance, and anguish and misery shot through her bosom as the eagle darteth on its prey. Her heart was not broken, but it fell like a proud citadel, bury- ing the determined ganison. Charl.33 Lawson had not been in India many months, when a party of na ve troops attacking the property of his relative, Charles, who had fallen wounded amongst thein, was carried by them in theii retreat into the interior of the country, where, for several yevrang, puir man, and he's no lived here since the hard vvinter, for they didna come ujion this parish." " Did not come upon this parish !" exclaimed Charles ; " heaven and earth ! what do you mean ?" " Mean ! what wad I mean," answered the other, " but iust that they were removed to their ain parish — is there ony disgrace in that .''" " Oh, my father I — my poor niotbsr !" cried Charles, wildly. . 1 1 r " Mercy, sir !" rejoined the astonished farmer. ■ cj-e ye j JIaister Charles ? — Bairns ! haste ye, tak the horse to the gtable. Losh, Charles, man, an' how hae ye been ? — but ye dinnaken nie — man, I'm yer auld schoolfellow. Boh Graham, and this is my ^^'•'^S' IMysie Allan—j'c mind o' Mysie. Haste ye, Mysie lass, kill t^va ducks, an' the bairns an' me nill Iiool the pease. Really, Charles, man, I'm sae glad to see ye !" During this harangue, Charles, led by his warm-hearted friend, had entered the dwelling of his nativity ; where Sir Graham again continued — " Ye, aiblins, dinna ken that auld Andrew Weir was sae sair in the dorts when ye gaed awa, that he set off wi' Betty for America. But I hear they are coming hame again this back end. Tlie bairn will be a stout callant now, and faith ye maun marry Betty, for she was a mensefu' lass." Charles could only reply by exclaiming — " America !— my wife ! — my child !" Having ascertained where he would find his parents, early on the following morning he departed, and, about five in the afternoon, approached the village where he had been told they resided. When near the little burying-ground, he stopped to look upon the most melancholy funeral proces- sion he had ever fldtnessed. The humble coffin was scarce coloured, and they who bore it seemed tired of their burden. Three or four aged and poor-looking people walked behind it. Scarce was it lowered into the grave, ere all departed, save one, meanly clothed in widow's weeds, and bent rather with the load of grief than of years. She alone lingered weeping over the hastily-covered grave. " She seems poor," said Charles, " and if I cannot com- fort her, I may at least relieve her necessities ;" — and fastening his horse to the gate, he entered the churchyard. She held an old handkerchief before her face, only removing it at intervals to steal a hurried glance at the new-made grave. " Good woman," said Charles, as he approached her " your sorrows demand my sympathy — could 1 assist you ?" " No ! no !" replied the poor widow, without raising her face — " but I thank you for your kindness. Can the grave give up its dead ?" " But why should you remain here ?" said he, with emotion ; " tell me, could not I assist you.'" And he placed a piece of money in her hand. " No ! no !" cried the widow, bitterly, and raising Iier head ; " oh, that Mary Lawson should have lived to be offered charity on her husband's grave !" " My mother ! gracious Heaven ! my mother !" exclaimed Charles, casting his arms around hor neck. Shall we de- scribe the scene that followed .'' — we will not, we cannot lie had seen his father laid in the dust, he had met his mother on his father's grave but we will not go on. It was some weeks after this that he proceeded with his widowed mother to his native village, to wait the return of Elizabeth. Nor had he to wait ; for, on the day prerious to liis return, Elizabeth, her son, and ber father, had arrived. Charles and his parent had reached ]Mr Graham's — the honest farmer rushed to the door, and, hurrying both towards the house, exclaimed, " Now, see if ye can find onybody that ye ken here !" His Elizabeth — his wife — his son — were there to meet him ; the next moment she was upon his bosom, and her child clinging by her side, and gazing on his face. He alternately held both to his heart — the mother and her son. Andrew Weir took his hand — his niotlier wept with joy and lilessed her children. Bob Graham and his Mysie were as happy as their guests. Charles Lawson liought the farm which Andrew Weir had formerly tenanted ; and our informant adds — they live in it sti" II y\^jLr^ WILSON'S ?I}i!StortfaI, STraliitionari), anlj Emast'itatibe TALES OF THE BORDERS. THE ORPHAN. About forty ycrirs ago, a post-cliaise was asi^lit more novel i[i till' little liaiiiU't of Tliormleaii, than silk gowns in country churches during the maidenhood of onr great-grandmothers; and, as one drew up at the only public-house in the village, the inhabitants, old and young, startled by the uuusnal and merry sound of its wheels, hurried to tlie street. The landlady, on the first notice of its approach, had hastily bestowed upon her goodly person the additional reccininien- dation of a clean cap and apron ; and, still tying the apron strings, ran bustling to the door, smiling, colouring, and courtesying, and courtesying and colouring again, to the yet unopened chaise. Poor soul ! she knew not well how to behave — it was an ejioch in her annals of innkeeping. At length the coachman, opening the door, handed out a lady in widow's weeds ; a beautiful, golden-haired child, apparently not exceeding five years of age, sprang to the ground with- out assistance, and grasped her extended hand. " What an image o' beauty !" exclaimed some half-dozen bystanders, as the fair child lifted her lovely face of smiles to the eyes of her mother. The lady stepped feebly towards the inn, and, though the landlady's heart continued to practise a sort of fluttering motion, which communicated a portion of its agitation to her hands, she waited upon her unexpected and anusual guests with a kindliness and humility that fully recompensed for the expertness of a practised waiter. About half an hour after the arrival of her visiters, she was seen bustling from the door — her face, as the villagers said, liursting with importance. They were still in groups about their doors, airA in the middle of the little street, discussing the mysterious arrival ; and, as she hastened on her mission, she was assailed with /» dozen such questions as these — ' AVat ye wiia she is .'''■' Is she ony great body .''" " Hae ye onv guess what brought her here ?" and " Is yon bonny crea- ture lier ain bairn ?" But to these and sundry other interro- gatories, the important hostess gave for answer—" Hoot, I hae nae time to haver the noo." She stopped at a small, but certainly the most genteel house in the village, occupied by a JIrs Douglas, who, in the country phrase, was a very douce, decent sort of an old body, and the widow of a Cameronian minister. In the summer season, Mrs Douglas kt out her little parlour to lodgers, who visited the village to leek health, or for a few weeks' retirement. She was com- pelled to do this from the narrowness of her circumstances ; for, though she was a " clever-handed woman," as her neiglibours said, " she had a sair fecht to keep up an appearance onyway like the thing ava." In a few minutes Mrs. Douglas, in a clean cap, a muslin kerchief round her neck, a quilted black bombazeen gown, and snow-white apron, followed the landlady up to the inn. In a short time she returned, the stranger lady leaning upon her arm, and the loTely child leaping like a young lamb Iwfore them, 5. VoL L Days and weeks passed away, and the good people of Thorn- dean, notwithstanding all their surmises and inquiries, were no wiser regarding their new visiter ; all they could learn was, that she was the widow of a young ollicer, who %va'i one of the first that fell when Britain interfered with the French Revolution ; and the mother and her child became known in the village by the designation of " IMrs Douglas' twa pictures !" — an appellation bestowed on them in refer- ence to their beauty. The beautiful destroyer, however, lay in the mother's heart, now paling her cheeks like the early lilly, and again scattering over them the rose and the rainbow. Still dream- ing of recovery, about eight months after her arrival in Thorndean, death stole over her like a sweet sleep. It was only a few moments before the angel hurled the fatal shaft, that the truth fell upon her soul. She was stretching forth her hand to her work-basket, her lovely child was prattling by her knee, and Mrs Douglas smiling like a parent upon both, striving to conceal a tear while she smiled, when the breathing of her fair guest became difficult, and the rose, which a moment before bloomed upon her countenance, vanished in a fitful streak. She flung her feeble arms around the neck of her child, who now wept upon her bosom, and exclaimed — " Oh! my Elizabeth, who will protect you now — my poor, poor orphan .'•" Mrs Douglas sprang to her assistance. She wid she had much to tell, and endeavoured to speak ; hut a gurgling sound only was heard in her throat ; she panted for breath ; the rosy streaks, deepening into blue, came and went upon her cheeks like the midnight dances of the northern lights ; her eyes flashed with a momentary brightness more than mortal, and the spirit fled. The fair orphan still clung to the neck, and kissed the yet warm lips of her dead mother. As yet she was too young to see all the dreariness of the desolation around her ; but she was indeed an orphan in the most cruel meaning of the word. Her mother had preser%-ed a mystery over her sorrows and the circumstances of her life, which JIrs Douglas had never endeavoured to penetrate. And now she was left to be as a mother to the helpless child, for she knew not if she had another friend ; and all that she had heard of the mother's history was recorded on the humble stone which she placed over her grave — " Here reslelh lite body oj IsaheUa Morion, nidom of Captain Morton; she died a7nong.1t us a stranger, hut beliivcd." The whole property to which the fair orphan became heir by the death of her mother, did not amount to fifty pounds, and amongst the property no document was found which could throw any light upon who were her relatives, or if she had any. But the heart of JIrs Douglas had already adopted her as a daughter; and, circumscribed as her cir- cumstances were, she trusted that He who provided food for the very birds of heaven, would provide the orjihan's morsel. Years rolled on, and Elizabeth Jlorton grew in stature and in beauty, the pride of her protector, and the joy of her age. But the infirT"ities of years g^ew upon her fcsttr- 34 TALES OF THE BORDERS, tnotlier, and, dia;iblingher from following her liabits of In Jas- trv, stern want entered her happy cottage. Still Elizabeth appeared only as a thing of joy, contentment, and gratitude ; and often did her evening song begnile her aged friend's gio-h into a smile. And to better their hard lot, she hired iiiTself to watch a few sheep upon the neighbouring hills, to r he steward of a gentleman named Sommerville, who, about the time of her mother's death, had purchased the estate of rhorndean. lie was but little beloved, for he was a hard Miaster, and a bad husband ; and more than once he had been ieen at the hour of midnight, in the silent churchyard, stand- ing over the grave of l^Irs Jlorton. This gave rise to not a lew whisperings respecting the birth of poor Elizabeth. lie had no children, and a nephew who resided in his house was understood to be his heir. William Sommerville was about a year older than our fair orphan ; and ever as he could escape the eye of his uncle, he would fly to the village to seek out Elizabeth as a playmate. And now, while she tended the feiv sheep, he would steal round the hills, and placing him- self by her side, teach her the lessons he had that day been taught, while his arm in innocence rested on her neck, their glowing cheeks touched each other, and her golden curls jilaved around them. Often were their peaceful lessons broken by the harsh voice and the blows of his uncle. But Ktill William stole to the presence of his playmate and pupil, liiitil he had completed his fourteenth year; when he was to leave Thorndean, preparatory to entering the army. He ivas permitted to take a hasty farewell of the villagers, for tliey all loved the boy ; but he went only to the cottage of Mrs Douglas. As he entered, Elizabeth wept, and he aiso i, hurst into tears. Their aged friend beheld the yearnings of. a young passion that might terminate in sorrow; and taking his hand, she prayed God to prosper him, and bade him fare- well. She was leading him to the door, when Elizabeth raised her tearful eyes ; he beheld them, and read their meaning, and, leaping forward, threw his arms round her neck, and printed the first kiss on her forehead ! "Do ^lot forget me, Elizabeth " he cried, and hurried from the house. Seven years from this period passed away. The lovely girl was now transformed into the elegant woman, in the summer majesty of her beauty. For four years Elizabeth had kept a school in the village, to which her gentleness and winning manners drew prosperity ; and her grey-haired benefactress enjoyed the reward of her benevolence. Pre- parations were making at Thorndean Hall for the reception of William, who was now returning as Lieutenant Sommer- ville. A post-chaise in the village had then bt'come a sight less rare ; but several cottagers were assembled before tlie inn to welcome the young laird. lie arrived, and with him a gentleman between forty and fifty ye.irs of nge. They had merely become acquainted''* uWelling companions; and the blranger being on his way northward, had accepted his invi- tation to rest at his uncle's for a few days. The footpath to the Hall lay tlirough the churchyard, about a quarter of a \ mile from the village. It was a secluded path, and Eliza- beth was wont to retire to it between school hours, and frequently to spend a few moments in silent meditation over Iier mother's grave. She was gazing upon it, when a voice arrested her attention, saying, "Elizabeth — Aliss Morton !" T lie speaker was Lieutenant Sommerville. accompanied by iiis friend. To the meeting of the young lovers we shall add nothing. But the elder stranger gazed on her face and trembled, and looked on her mother's grave and wept. " Morton !" he repeated, and read the inscription on the humble stone, and again gazed on her face, and again wept. " Lady !" he exclaimed, " pardon a miserable man — what was the name of your mother ? — who the family of your father f Answer me, 1 implore you !" " Alas ! I know oeither," said the wondering and now unhappy Elizabeth. Your name is Morton," cried tlie stranger ; " I bad a wife — I had a Citighter once, and my Isabella's face .vas thy faceT While he yet spoke, the elder Sommerville drew near to meet his nephew. His eyes and the stranger's met. " Sommer- ville !" exclaimed the stranger, starting. " The same." re- plied the other, _ his brow blackening like thunder, while a trembling passed over his body. He rudely griusped the arm of his nephew, and drarged him away. The interesting stranger accompanied Elizabeth to the house of Mrs Douglas. Painful were his inquiries; for, while thev kindled hope and assurance, they left all in cruel uncertainty "Oh, sir!" said 5Irs Douglas, "if ye be the fiiither o' my blessed bairn, I dinna wonder at auld Sommer^-ille grow- ing black in the f ce when he saw ye; for, when want came hard upon our heels, and my dear motherless and faitherless bairn was driven to herd his sheep bv the brae sides — there wad the poor, dear, delicate bairn (for she was as delicatt then as she is bonny now) been lying — the sheep a' feeding round about her, and her readin' at her Bible, just like a little angel, her lee lane, when the brute wad come sleikin' down ahint her, an' giein' her a diive "i' his foot, cursed her for a little lazy something I'm no gaun to name, an' rugged hei bonny yellow hair, till he had the half o' it torn out o' her head ; — or the monster wad riven the blessed book out o' her hand, an' thrown it wi' an oath as far as he could drive. But the nephew was aye a bit fine callant ; only, ye ken wi' my bairn's prospects it wasna my part to encourage uny- thing." Eagerly did the stranger, who gave his name as Colonel Morton, hang over the fair being who had conjured up the sunshine of his youth. One by one, he was weeping and tracing every remembered feature of his wife upon her face ; when doubt again entered his mind, and he exclaimed in bitterness — " Jlerciful Heaven ! convince me Oh, con- vince me that I have found my child !" The few trinkets that belonged to Mrs I\Iorton had been parted with in the depth of her poverty. At that moment. Lieutenant Som- merville hastily entered the cottage. He stated that hia uncle had left the Hall, and delivered a letter from him to Colone' Mc/ton. It was of few words, and as fol- lows :— " IMoRTON, — We were rivals forlsabella's love — you were made happy, and I miserable. But I have not been unre- venged. It was I who betrayed you into the hands of the enemy. It was I who reported you dead— who caused the tidings to be hastened to your widowed wife, and followed them to England. It was I who poisoned the ear of her friends, until they cast her olT — I dogged her to her obscurity, that I might enjoy my triumph ; but death thwarted me as you had done. Yet I will do one act of mercy — she sleeps beneath the grave where we met yesterday ; and the lady before whom you wept — is your own daughter." He cast do\vn the letter, and exclaian^d — ' Jly child ! — my long lost child !" And, in speechless joy, the father and the datitjhter rushed to each other's arms. I>liall we add more.'' The elder Sommerville left his native land, which he never again disgraced with his presence. William and Elizabeth wandered by the hill-side in bliss, catching love and recollections from the scene. In a few months her father bestowed on him her hand, and JIrs Douglas, in jcj and ia pride bestowed upon both her blessing. SQUIRE BEN. Befoue introducing my readers to the n.irrative of Squire Ben, it may be proper io inform them who Squire Ben was. In the year I81(), when the piping times of peace had begun, and our heroes, like Othello, found " their occupa- tion gone," a thickset, blutf, burly-headed little man — who.sc every wo:d and look reminded you of Incledon's " Ccott, TALES OF THE BORDERS. 35 rudf noreas," and bespoke him to be one of those who had " bailed ivith noble .Icrvis." or, " In gallant Duncan's fleet, Had gung uut, yo heara lio 1"— . purclinscd a small estate in Nortliaralicrland, a few miles rrora tlie biuiks of tlio Coquet. He might be fifty years of nge; but his weather-beaten countcn;uice gave him tlic nppeamnco of a man of sixty. Around tlie collar of a Newfoundland dog, which followed him more faithfully than his shadow, were ongravid the words, " Captiiin IJenjamin Cookson ;" but, after he had purchased the estate to which I have alluded, his poorer neighbours c;dled him Squire Ben. lie was a strange mixture of enthusiasm, shrewdness, cour- age, comicality, generosity, and humanity. Ben, on becom- ing a country gentleman, became a keen iishcr ; .ind, as it is gaid, " a fellow feeling makes one wondrous kind," I also being fond of the si)ort, became a mighty favourite \rith the blulV-faced S([uire. It was on a fine bracing day in I\Iarch, after a tolerable day's fishing, we went to dine and spend tlie afternoon in the Angler's Inn, which stiinds at tlie north end of tlie bridge over the Coquet, at the foot of the hill leading «p to Ixingframlington. Obscn'ing that Ben Wiis in good s;iiLing trim, 1 dropped a hint that an account of his voyages and cruises on the ocean of life would bo interesting. '" Ah, my hoy," s;ud Ben, " you are there with your soundings, are you? — Well, you sluill have a long story by tlie sliortest tack. Somebody was my father," continued he, ' but whom I know not. This much I know about my mother: she was cook in a fentleman's family in this county ; and being a fat, portly body — something of the build of her son, 1 t;ike it — no one suspected that she was in a certain delicate situation, until within a few days before I was born. Then, with very grief and shame, the poor thing became delirious ; and, as an old servant of the family has since told me, you could see the very flesh melting olK her bones. While she continued in a state of delirium, your humble scrviuit, poor Benjamin, was bom ; and, without recovering her senses, she died within an hour after ray birth, lea^nng me — a beautiful orphan, as you see me now — a leg.acy to the workhouse and the world. Benjamin was my mother's family name — from which I suppose they had something of the Jew in their blood; though, Heaven knows, I hiive none in my composition. So they w ho had the christening of me gave me my mother's name of Benjamin, as my Christian name ; and, from her occupation as cook, they surnamed me Cookson — that is, ' Benjamin the Cook's son,' simply Ben- jamin Cookson, more simply. Squire Ben. Well, you see, my boy, I was born beneath the roof of an English squire, and, before I was three hours old, was handed over to the workhouse. This was the beginning of my life. The first thing I remember was hating the workhouse — the second was loving the sea. Yes, sir, before I was seven years old, I used to steal away in the noble company of my own good self, and sit down upon a rock on the solitary beach, watch- ing the ships, the waves, and the sea-liirds — wishing to be a wave, a ship, or a bird — ay, sir, wishing to be anything but poor orphan Ben. The sea was to me what my parents slKuild have been — a thing I delighted to look upon. I loved the very music of its maddest storms ; though, quietly, 1 have since had enough of them. I began my career before I was ten years of age, as cabin-boy in a collier. 5Iy nkipper was a dare-devil, tear-away sort of fellow, who cared no more for running down one of your coasting craft, than for turning a quid in his mouth. But he was a good, honest, kind-hearted sort of chap for all that — barring that the rope's-end was too often in his hand. ' Ben,' says he to me one misty day, when we were taking coals across the herring pond to the Dutchmen, and the ni,-in at the helm could not see half-way to the mast head — ' Den, my little fellow, can you cipher?' Yes., sir," sojs I. ' The deuce you can!' says be; ' then jou're just the lad for me. And do you understand logarithms ?' ' No, sir,' savs I ; ' what sort of wood be they ?' ' Wood be hanged^! you blockliead!" said lie, raising bis fimt in a passion, but a smile on the corners of his mouth shoved it to the (leek again, before it reached me. ' But come, Ben, you can cipher, you say ; well, 1 know all alio\it the radius luid tangents, and them sort of things, and stating the question ; but blow me if I have a multiplication table on board — my fingers are of no use at a long number, and I am always getting out of it counting by chalks; — bo come below, Ben, :uid look over the questiim, and let us find where we are. 1 know I have made a mistake someway ; and mark ye, Ben, if you don't find it out — ye that can cipher — there's a roj>e'»- enil to your supper, and that's all.' Hows'ever, sir, 1 did find it out, and I was regarded as a prodigy in the ship ever after. The year before I was out of my apprenticeship, our vessel was laid up for four months, and the skipper sent me to school during the time, at his own expense, saying — ' Get navigation, Ben, my boy, and you will one day be a commo- dore — by Jupiter, vou'Il be an honour to the navy.' I got as far as ' Dead Reckoning,' and there I reckon I made a dead stand, or rather, I ceased to do anyllung but study ' Lunar Observations.' Our owner had a (huigbter, my out age to a day. I can't describe her, sir ; 1 haven't enough of wliat I suppose you would call poetry about me for that, but. upon the word of a sador, her hair was like night rendered transparent — black, jet black ; her neck wliite as the spray on the bosom of a billow ; her face was lovelier than a rain- bow ; and her figure luaidsome as a frigate in full sail. But she had twenty thousand pounds — she was no bargain for orphan Ben ! However, I saw her, and that was enough — learning and I shook hands. Her father had a small yacht^ he proposed taking a pleasure party to the Coquet isle. Jess — for that was her name — w;ls one of tliS passengers, and the manag' ment of the yacht was entrusted to me. In si)ite of mysel , I gazed upon her by the hour — I was intoxicated with passion — my heart .swelled as if it would burst from my bosom. I saw a tilled puppy touch her fingers — 1 heard him prattle love in her ears. i\ly first impulse was to dash him overboard. I wished the sea which 1 loved might riso and swallow us. I thought it would be happiness to die in her company^perhaps to sink with her arm clinging round my neck for protection. The wish of my madness was verified. We were returning. We were five miles from Uie shore. A squall, then a hurricane, came on — every sail was reefed — the mast was snapped as I would snap that pipe between my fingers ;' — (here the old Squire, suiting the action to the word, broke the end ofif his pipe;) — ' the sea rose — the hurricane increased, the yacht capsized, as a feather twirls in the wind. Every soul that had been on board was now struggling for life — buffeting the billows. At that moment I had but one thought, and that was of Jess ; but one wish, and that was to die with her. I saw my fellow-creatures in their death agonies, but I looked only for her. At the moment \ve were upset, she was clinging to the arm of the titled puppy for protection ; and now 1 saw her within fivi' yards of me still clinging to the skirts of his coat, calling on him and on her father to save her ; and 1 saw him — yes, sir, I saw the monster, while struggling with one hand, raise the other to strike her on fc*ie face, that he might extricate himself from her grasj Brute ! — monster !' I exclaimed ; and the next moment i had fixed my clenched hands in the hair of his head. Then, with one hand, I grasped the arm of her I loved ; and, with the other, uttering a fiendish yell, 1 endeavoured to hurl the coward to the bottom of the sea. The yacht still lay bottom up, but was now a hundred yards from us; however, getting my arm round the waist of my adored Jess — I laughed at the sea — I defied the hurricane. V\'e reached the yacht. Her keel was not three feet out of the water ; and. with my right hand, I manag-d to obtain a hold uf it. I saw two of tlie ciew and six "f the 36 TALES OF THE BORDERS. • lassL-ngers perish ; out her father, aiitl the coward who had sliiick her from him, still struggled with the waves. They were borne tar from us. AVithin half aii hour I saw a >ressel pick them up. It tried to reach us, but could not. Two hours more had passed, and night M'as coming on — my strength gave way — my hold loosened — I made one more desperate effort, I fixed my teeth in the keel — but the bur- den under my left arm was still sacred — I felt her breath upon my cheek — it inspired me with a lion's strength, and for another hour I clung to the keel. Then the fury of the .■rUinn slackened ; — a boat from the vessel that had picked up her fatlicr, reached us — we were taken on board. She v/as ienseless, but stiU breathed — my arm seemed glued round I'er Tvaist. I u-as almost unconscious of everything, but an attempt to take her from me. iMy teeth gnavfied when they touched my hand to do so. As we approached the vessel, those on board hailed us with three cheers. We were lifted on deck. She was conveyed to the cabin. In a few minutes I became fully conscious of our situation. Some one gave me brandy — my brain became on tire. ' Where is she .'' I exclaimed — ' did I not save her .' — save lier from the coward who would have murdered her .''' I rushed to the cabin — she was recovering — her father stood over her — strangers were rubbing her bosom. Her father took my hand to thank me ; but I was frantic — I rushed towards her — I bent over her — I pressed my lips to hers — I called her mine. Her father grasped me by the collar — ' Boy, beggar, bastard !' lie exclaimed. With his last word half of my frenzy vanish- ed — for a moment I seized him by the throat — I cried, ' R«peat the word !' — I groaned in the agony of shame and madness. I rushed upon the deck — we were then within a quarter of a mile from the shore — I plunged overboard — 1 swam to the beach — I reached it." I became interested in the narrative of the Squire, and I besged he would continue it with less rajiidity. •' Rapidity!" said he, fixing upon me a glance in which I tliought there was something like disdain — " youngster, if you cast a feather into the stream it will be borne on with it. But," added he, in a less hurried tone, after pausing to breathe for a few moments — " after struggling \vith the strong surge for a good half hour, I reached the shore. My utmost strength was spent, and I was scarce able to drag myself a dozen yards beyond tide-mark, when I sank exhausted on the beach. I lay, as though in sleep, until night had gathered round me ; and when I arose, cold and benumbed, my deli- rium had passed a^^■ay. My bosom, however, like a galley manned with criminals, was still the ])rison-house of agonis- ing feelings, each more unruly than another. Every scene in wliich I had bonie a part during the day, rushed before me in a moment — her image — the image of my Jess, min- gled witli each ; I hated existence — I almost despised myself; but tears started from my eyes — the suffocation in my breast passed away, and I again breathed freely. I will uot trouble you with details. IavIU pass over the next tive years of my life, during which I was man-of-war's man, privateer, and smuggler. But I will tell you how I became a smuggler, for that calling I only followed for a week, and that was from necessity ; but, as you shall hear, it well nigh .;ost me mv life. Brit;un had just launched into a war with France, and I ■iv'as first mate of a small privateer, carrying two guns and a long Tom. We were trying our fortune within six leagues of the Di'tch coast, when two French merchantmen hove in sight. They were too heavy metal for us, and we saw that it would be necessary to deiil with ihem warily. So, hoisting the republican flag, we bore down upon them ; but the Frenchmen were nut to be had ; and no sooner had we come within gunshot, than one of them saluted our little craft witli a broadside that made her dance in the \\'ater. It was evident there 'vas no chance for us but at close quarters. ' Cookson ' says our commander to me. ' what's to be done mv lad ' ' Leave the privateer ' says I. What !' says he, ' take th'i long boat and run. without singing a Frenchman's whisker ! — no, blow me, says he. ' Xo, sir/ says I, ' board them — give them a touch of the cold steel.' ' Riglit, Ben, my boy, says he ; ' helm about there — look to j'our cutlasses, mv hearties — and now for the Frenchman's deck, and French uine to supper.' The next moment we had tacked about, and were under the Frenchman's bow. In turning round, long Tom had been discharged, and clipped the rigging of the other vessel beau- tifully. The commander, myself, and i dozen more, sprang upon the enemy's deck, cutlass in hand. Our reception ^^•as as warm as powder and steel could make it — the Frenchmen fought like devils, and disputed with us every inch of the deck hand to hand. But, d'ye see, we beat them aft, though their numbers were two to one ; yet, as bad luck would have it, out of the twelve of us who had boarded her, only seven were now able to handle a cutlass ; and amongst those who lay dying on the enemy's decl<, ^^•as our gallant com- mander. He was a noble fellow, sir — a regular fire-eater_ even in death. Bleeding, dying as he was, he endeavoured to drag his body along the deck to assist us — and when finding it v/ould not do, and he could move no farther, he drew a pistol from his belt, and raising himself on one hand, he discharged it at the head of the French captain with the other — and shouting out — ' Go it, my hearties I — Ben ! never yield !' his head fell upon the deck — and ' he died like a true British sailor.' But, sir, the other vessel that had been crippled, at tiiat moment mad* alongside. Her crew also boarded to assist their countnnien, and we were attacked fore and aft There was nothing no\\- left for us but to cut our way to the privateer, which had been brought round to the other side of the vessel we had boarded. She had been left to the care of the second mate and six seamen ; but the traitor, seeing our commander fall, and the hopelessness of our success, tut the lashings, and bore off, leaving us to our fate on the deck of the enemy. Our number was now reduced to five, and we were hemmed in on all sides but we fought like tigers bereaved of their cubs. We placed ourselves heel to heel, we formed a little circle of death. I know not whether it was admiration of our courage, or the cowardice of the enemy, that induced them to proclaim a truce, and to offer us a boat, oars, and provisions, and to depart with our arms. We agreed to their proposal, after fighting an hour upon their deck. And here begins my short, but eventful history' as a smuggler. We had been six hours at sea in the open boat, when we were picked up by a smuggling lugger named the Wildfire. Her ca]itain was an Englishman, and her cargo, which consisted princijially of brandy and Hollands, « as to be delivered at Spittiii and Boomer. It was about daybreak on the third morning after we had been picked up ; wc were again within sight of the Coquet isle. 1 had not seen it for five years It called up a thousand recollections — I became eutnincea ill the past. jMy Jess seeme8 TxVLES OF THE BORDERS. double laid. I saw her character in a moment. I went on board — I inquired of the commander if he would ship a hand. lie gave me a knowing look, and inquired if ever I had been in the trade before. I mentioned my name and the ship in which I had last served. ' The deuce you are 1' he said; 'what ! you Cookson ! — ship you, ay, and a liundred like you, if I could get them.' I L^ed hardly tell you the vessel was a privateer. Within three days the schooner left the Mersey, and I had the good fortune to be shipped as mate. For two years we boxed about the Mediterranean, and I had cleared, as my share of prize-money, nearly a thou- sand pounds. At that period, our skipper, thinking he had made enough, resigned the command in favour of me. JMy first cruise was so successful that I was enabled to purchase B privateer of my own, which I named the Jess. For, d'ye see, her idei was like a never-waning moonlight in my brain —her emphatic words, Hope I — hope ! — hope !' whispered eternally in mj breast — and I did hope. Sleeping or waking, on sea or on shore, a day never passed but the image of my Jess arose on my sight, smiling and saying — ' Hope !' In four years more, I had cleared ten thousand pounds, and I sold the schooner for another thousand. I now thought my- self a match for Jess, and resolved to go to the old man — her father, I mean — and offer to take her without a shilling. Well, I had sold my craft at Plymouth, and, before proceed- ing to the north, was stopping a few days in a smalltown in the south-west of England, to breathe tlie land air — for my face, you see, had become a little rough, by constant exposure to the weather. Well, sir, the windows of my lodging faced the jail, and, for three days, I observed the handsomest figure that ever graced a woman, enter the prison at meal-times. It was the very figure — the very gait of my Jess — only her appearance was not genteel enough. But I had never seen her face. On the fourth day, I got a glimpse of it. Powers of earth ! it was her ! — it was my Jess ! I rushed down stairs like a madman — I flew to the prison-door and knocked. The jailor opened it. I eagerly inquired who the young lady was that had just entered. He abruptly replied — ' The daughter of a debtor.' ' For Heaven's sake,' I returned, ' let me speak with them.' He refused. I pushed a guinea into his hand, and he led me to the debtor's room. And there, sir^there stood my Jess — my saviour — my angel — there she stood, administering to the wants of her grey- haired father. I won't, because I can't, describe to you the tragedy scene that ensued. The old man had lost all that he possessed in the world — his thousands had taken wings and flown away, and he was now pining in jail for fifty — and his daughter, my noble Jess, supported him by the labours of her needle. I paid the debt before I lef't the prison, and out I came, with Jess upon one arm, and the old man on the other. AVe were married within a month. I went to sea again — but I will pass over that ; and when the peace was made, we came down here to Northumber- land, and purchased a bit of ground and a snug cabin, about five miles from this, and there six little Couksons are romp- ing about, and calling my Jess their mother, and none of them orphans, like their father, thank Heaven ! And now, sir, you have heard the narrative of Squire Bea— what do yuu think of it ?" THE FAIR. you .may smile, reader, at the idea of a stoiy entitled — The Fair ; but read on, and you may find it an appropriate title to a touching, though simple tale. This may seem like the writer's praising his own production — but that is neither here nor there amongst authors — it is done every day ; and not amongst authors only, but amongst all trades, crafts, and professions. If a man dors not sjicak well of bis own wares. whom does he expect to do it for him, when every person is busy selling wares of his o\vn ? You know the saying — " He's a silly gardener that lichtlies his ain leeks." But to go on with The Fair. On a Fair day, nature always turns out hundreds of her best human specimens of unsophistica ted workmanship. Did you ever examine the countenances tJ a rustic group around a stall covered with oranges and sweet- meats — a bevy of rural beauties, besieging the hoail and the pockets of a rural bachelor of two-and-twenty. Thf colour of one countenance is deep and various as the rain- bow — a second emulates the rose — a third the caniati on — while the face of a fourth, who is deemed the old maid of her companions, is sallow as a daffodil after a north wind. There blue eyes woo, and dark eyes glance affection, an.-l ruby lips open with the jocund laugh ; and there, too. you may trace the workings of jealousy, rivalry, and envy, and other passions less gentle than love, according as the orange." and gingerbread happen to be divided amongst the fair reci- pients. You, too, have heard the drum beat for glory, and the shrill note of the fife ring through the streets, while a portly sergeant, with a sword bright as a sunbeam, and un- sheathed in his hand, flaunted his smart cockade, or belike shook a well-lined purse as he marched along, or, halting at intervals, shook it again, while he harangued the gaping crowd — " Now, my lads — now is the time for fortune and glory! There, by Jupiter ! there is the look — the shoulders — the limb.s — the gait of a captain at least ! Join us, my noble fellow, and your fortune is made — your promotion is certain ! God save the King ! Down with the Frencli !" — " Down wi' them I" cries a yoimg countryman, flushed with " the barley bree," and, borrowing the sword of the sergeant, waves it uncouthly round his head — feels himself a hero — a Sampson — a Ca;sar — all the glories of Napoleon seem extinguished beneath his sword-arm. " Down wi' them I" he cries again more vehemently, and again — " Hurra for the life of a sodger !" — and the nest moment the ribbon streams from his Sunday hat. On such incidents tarns our present story. Willie Forbes was a hind in Berwickshire. He was also the only child and the sole support of a widowed mother, and she loved him as the soul loveth the hope of immortality ; for Willie was a dutiful son and a kind one, and, withal, one of whom many mothers in Scot- land might have been proud ; for his person was goodly as his heart was affectionate , and often as his mother sur- veyed his stately figure, she thought to hwself — as a mother will — that " there wasna n marrow to her Willie in a' braid Scotland." Now, it chanced that, before Willie had com- pleted his twenty-third year, they were " in need of a i)it lassie," as his mother said, '' to keep up the bondage." WiUie, therefore, went to Dunse hiring, to engage a servant; but, as fate would have it, he seemed to fix upon the most luilikely maiden for field-work in the market. At a comer of the market-place, as if afraid to enter the crowd, stood a lovely girl of about eighteen. Her name was Menie Morrison. " Are ye for hiring the day, hinny .'" said Willie, kindly. " Yes," was the low and faltering reply. " And what place was ye at last .''" " I never was in service," said she ; and as she said this, she faltered more. " An' where does your father live — what is he.'" continued Willie. " He is dead," answered Menie, with a sigh. Willie paused a few moments, and added — " And your mother .-'' " Dead, too !" replied the maiden ; and tears gushed into her eyes. " Puir thing ! — puir thing !" s.iid Willie — " weel, I'm sure I dinna ken what to s.iy till't." " You may look at this," said she ; and she put into his hands a slip ol paper. It was her character from the minister of the parish where she had been brought up. " That's very excellent." s;iid Willie, returning the paper — " very satis- factory — very, indeed. But- — can yc — can ve hoe }" added he, hesitatingly. " Not well," answered she. " I like that, that's honest," added be ; " hocin's easy learned. Can yt TALES OF THE BORDERS. 39 mUk a cow .'■■ " I\'o, slip rpplk-d. '• l^nat's a pity," re- turiu'd Willie. But lie liiiiki.il a^;iin in lu-r f.ico; lit" saw tlie tear still there. It was like tlie .sun <;ildiii(,' a suniiniT cloud after a shower — it rendered her face more beautiful. " Weel, it's nae j^reat matter," added he ; '' my mother can learn ye." And Willie l''i>rl)>>s hiri'd I\Ienie Morrison through his heart. In a slunt time, Meiiie beca-ne nn excellent servant. Willie and his motlier called her — " our Menie." She loved her as a daughter, he as a man loveth the wife of his hosom ; and iMenie loved both in return. She had been two years in their service, and the wedding-day of Meiiie and Willie was to be ill three months. For a few weeks, Willie, from his character and abilities, hid been appointed farm-ste»vard. He looked forward to the day when he should be able to take a farm of his own, and Meiiie would be the mistress of it. Hut Berwick Fair came — Willie h-ul a cow to sell, and Menie was to accompany him to the fair. Now, the cow was sold, and Willie was "gallanting" iMenie and three or four of her companions about the streets. He could not do less than bestow a fairing n[ion each; and he led them to a booth where the usual luxuries of a fair were s])read out. At the booth, Willie found his master's daughter with some of her own acquaintances. She was dressed more gaily than Menie Morrison, and her face was also fair to look upon, but it wanted the soul, the charm that glowed in the coun- tenance of the humble orphan. It had long been whispered about the farm-stead, and at the farm-=;ti':iils around it, that '* Jliss Jean was fond o' Willie Forbes ;" and some even said that it was through her partiality he obtained his steward- ship. Menie had heard this, and it troubled lier ; for the breeze 'hat scarce moves the down on the thistle, will move the breast of a woman that loves. Miss .lean accosted the young steward for her fairing. " Ye shall hae that," said \\'iilie, " but there's naething guid eneugh here for the like o' ,'/o« — come awa to ane o' the shops." So saying, he diseni^agcd his arm from Jlenie Morrison's, and without thiiikiniT of what he did, otfercd it to his master's daughter, and left Jlenle and her friends at the booth. Poor iNlenie stood motionless, a mist seemed to gather before her eyes, and the crowd passed before her as a dream. ' Ye see how It is," observed her companions ; " naelhiiig here guid eneugh fir her! — if ye speak to him again Menie, ye deserve to beg on the causie I Her pride was wounded — her heart was touched — a cloua fell upon her attections. Such is hu- man nature that it frequently happens revenge and love are at each other's elbows. Now, Menie was not without other idniirers; and it so happened that one of these, who had more pretensions to this world's goods than Willie Forbes, came up at the moment, while her bosom was struggling with bitter feelings. For the first time, Menie turned not away at his a])proach. He was more liberal in his fairings than Willie could have been. As the custom then was, and in some instances still is, thev heard the sounds of music and dancing. Willie's rival pressed 'Menie and her companions to " step up and hae a reel." They complied, and she accompanied them, scarce knowing what she did. In a few minutes, Willie returned to the booth, but Jlenie R-as not there. His eye wandered among the crowd — he valked up and down the streets, but he found her not. Something told him he had done wrong — he had slighted Menie At length a " good-natured friend" informed him she was dancing with young Laird Lister. The intelligence was wormwood to his spirit. He hastened to the dancing- room, and there he beheld iMenie, " the observed of all ob- servers," gliding among her rustic companions lightlv as yon have seen a butterlly kiss a flower. For a moment and he was jiroud to look upon her as the queen of the room ; but he saw his rival hand her to a seat and his blood boiled. He enproached her. She returned his salutalinn with a cold glance. Anothpr ree-l had been danced — ^^'illie offered her his hand for lier partner in the ne.xt. "I'm engaged," said the hitherto gentle Menie ; " but maybe Miss Jean will hae nae objections — i/ there's oni/thing guid eneugh Jor her here." M that moment, Willie's rival put his arrn through Menie's — she stood by his side — the music struck up, anproached, and "He comes! — He conies! " shouted the crowd; "Hurra! Hurra! — the King! the King!" The garrison again entered the town, they filed to the right and left, lining the street. In front of Marygatc stood William Selby, the gentleman porter, with the keys of the town. The voice of the artillery, the muskets, and the mul- titude again mingled together. James of Scotland and of England stood before the gate — Selby bent upon his knee, he pl.iced the keys of the town in the hands of the monarch, who instantly returned them, saying, " Kise, Sir William Selby, an', saul o' me, man, but ye should take it as nae sma' honour to be the first knight made by James, by the grace of God, an' the love o' our gracious cousin, King o' England an' Scotland likewise." His Majesty, followed by the mul- titude, proceeded down Marygate, through the files of the garrison, to the market-place, where the worshipful Hugh Gregson, the mayor, his brother aldermen, the bailiffs, and others of the principal burgesses, waited to receive him. The Mayor knelt and presented him with a purse of gold and the corporation's charter. " Ye are a leal and considerate gentle- man," said the king, banding the purse to one of his attend- ants — " worthy friends are ye a'; and now take back your charter, an' ye sail find in us a gracious and affectionate sovereign, ready to maintain the liberty and privileges it confers upon our trusty subjects o' our town o' Berwick." Mr Christopher Parkinson, the Recorder, then delivered a set and solemn speech, after which the king proceeded to the church, where the Kev. Toby Mathews, Bishop of Durham, preached a sermon suited to royal ears. On the following day, the demonstrations of rejoicing were equally loud, and his Majesty visited the garrison and fortifications; and as he walked upon the ramparts surrounded by lords from Scotland and from England, and while the people shouted, and the ar- tillery belched forth fire, smoke, and thunder, the monarch, in order to give an unquestionable demonstration of his courage in the presence of his new subjects, boldly advanced to the side of one of the cannon, and took the match from the hands of the soldier who was about to fire it. Once — twice — thrice, the monarch stretched forth his hand to the touch-hole, but touched it not. It was evident the royal hand trembled — the royal eyes wore closed — yea, the royal cheeks became pale. At length the quivering match touched the powder, back bounded the thundering cannon, and back sprang the terrified monarch, knocking one of his attendants down — dropping the match upon the ground, and thrusting his fin- gers in his ears — stammering out, as plainly as his throbbing heart would permit, that "he feared their drum was split in twa!" Scarce had his Majesty recovered from this demon- stration of his bravery, when a messenger arrived with the intelligence that the Armstrongs and other clans had com- mitted grievous depredations on the Borders, and had even carried their work of spoliation and plunder as far as Penrith. "Borders, man!" quoth the king, "our kingdom hath nae borders but the sea. It is our royal pleasure th.it the word borders sail never mair be used : wat ye not that what were the extremities or borders o' the twa kingdoms, are but the middle o' our kingdom, an' in future it is our will and decree that ye ca' them nae langer the borders, but the middle counties. An' now, Sir William Selby, as we were 42 TALES OF THE BOEDERS gmciouslj pleased yesterday by cnr a'n hand, to confer on ye the high honour o' knigluhood, tak yo twa hundred and fifty horsemen, and gae ye up our midiUe counties, com- manding eyery true man in our name, capable o' bearing arms, to join ye in crushing and in punishing sic thieves and rievers ; hang ilka Armstrong and Johnstone amang them that resists our royal will — an' make the iron yetts o' their towers be converted into ploughshares. — Away, sir, an' do your wark surely an' right quickly." On the foUomng day, Sir William Selby set out upon his mission; and before he had proceeded far, he found himself at the head of a tliousand horsemen. They burned and destroyed the strongholds of the Borderers as they went, and the more desperate amongst them who fell into their hands were sent in fetters to Carlisle. It was early in May, and the young leaves, bursting into beauty and being, were spreading their summer livery over Tarras forest, and the breeze wafted their grateful fragrance over the morass ; even on the morass itself, a thousand simple flowers, likefragmentsof beauty scattered in handfuls amidst the wide-spreaa desolation, peeped forth ; and over the sharp cry of the wheeling lapwing rang the summer h}'mn of the joyful lark, when, a.s we have before said, Sandy Arm- strong sat on the ttirret of Cleughfoot with liis son by his side. " Archy," said the freebooter, " this warld is turning upside down, an' honest men hae nae chance in't. We hear o' naething noo but law ! Jaw ! law ! — but the fient a grain o* justice is to be met wi' on the Borders. A man canna take a bit beast or twa in an honest way, or make a bonfire o' an enemy's haystack, but there's naethin' for't but Carlisle and a hempen cravat. But mind, callant, ye ha'e the bluid o' the Armstrongs in your veins, and their hands never earned bread by ony instrument but the sword, and it ■\rinna be the son o' Sandy o' Cleughfoot that will disgrace his kith and kin by trudging at a ploughtail, or learning some beggarly handicraft. Swear to me, Archy, that ye will live by the sword like your faithers afore ye — swear to your faither, callant, an' fear neither Jamie Stuart, his twa king- doms, nor his horsemen — they'll ha'e stout hearts that cross Tarras moss, and there will be few sheep in Liddesdale before the pot at Cleughfoot need nae skimming." '' I will live like my faither before me — king o' Tarras- slde," said the youth. " That shall ye, Arcivy," re'cined the freebooter ; " an' though the Scotts an' the Elliots may, like fause louns, malie obeisance to the king, and get braid lands for bending their knees, what cares Sandy Armstrong for their lands, their manrents, or their sheep-akins, scrawled owre byasilk-fingered monk — his twa-handed blade and his Jeddart-staff shall be a better title to an Armstrong than an acre o' parchment." The boy caught the .spirit of his sire, and flourished his Jedburgh-stafiF, or battle-axe, in his hand. The father raised the quegh to bis lips — " Here's to ye, Archy," he cried, " j-e'll be cooper o' Fogo !" He crossed his arms upon his breast — he sat thoughtful for a few minutes, and again added — " Archy — but my heart fills to look on ye — ye are a brave bairn, but this is nae langer the brave man s country. Courage is persecuted, and knaves only are encouraged, that can scribble like the monks o' Melrose. Ye had sax brithers, Archy — sax lads whase marrows wama to be found on a' the lang Borders — wi' them at my back an' I could hae ridden north an' south, an' made the name o' Sandy Armstrong be feared ; but they are gane — they're a' gane, and there's nane left but you to protect and defend your poor mother when I am gane too ; and now they would hunt me like a deer if tliey durst, for they are butchering guid and true men for our bit raid to Penrith, as though the life o' an Armstrong were o' less value than an English nowt. If ye live to be a man. Archy, and to gee your poor auld mother's head laid in the mould, take my sword and Icavo tlii? poor, pitifu', king-ridden, an' book- ruined country ; an' dinna ye disgrace your faither by makin' bickers like the coopers o' Xicohvood, or pinglin wi' an elshin like the souters o' Selkirk." The duth-dog, which lay at their feet, started up, snufied the air, growled and lashed its tail. " Ha ! Tiger ! what is't. Tiger .?" cried Sandy, addressing the dog, and springing to his feet. " Troopers ! troopers, faither!" cried Archy, " an' thej are comia' frae ilka side o' the forest." " Get ready tlie dags,* Ajchy," said the freebooter ; " it's twa lang spears' length to the bottom o' Tarras moss, an they'll be light men and lighter horses that find na a grave in't — get ready the dags, and cauld lead shall welcome the first m.in that mentions King Jamie's name before the waUs o' Cleughfoot." The boy ran and brought his father's pistols — his mothei accompanied him to the turret. She gazed earnestly on the threatening bands of horsemen as they approached, for a few seconds, then taking her husband's hand — " Sandy," said she, " I hae lang looked for this ; but others that are wives the now shall gang widows to bed the night as weU as Elspeth Armstrong !" " Fear naething, Elspeth, my doo," replied the never ; " there -will be blood in the way if they attack the lion in his den. But there's a lang and tangled moss atween them an' Cleughfoot. We hae seen an enemy nearer an' be glad to turn back again." " They will reach us, faither," cried Archy ; " do ye no see they hae muflled men before them." " Sluffled men ! then, bairn, your faither's betrayed '." exclaimed the freebooter, " an' there's naething but revenge and death left for Sandy Armstrong !" He stalked rapidly around the turret — he examined h:8 pistols, the edge of his sword, his Jedburgh-stafF and his spear. Elspeth placed a steel cap on his head, and, from beneath it, his dark hair, mingled with grey, fell upon his brow. He stood with his ponderous spear in one hand and a pistol in the other, and the declining s\m cast his shadow across the moss, to the very horses' feet of his invaders. Still the horsemen, who amounted to several hundreds, drew nearer and nearer on every side, and impenetrable as the morass was to strangers, yet, by devious windings, as a hound tracks its prey, the muffled men led them on, tUl they had arrived within pistol shot of Cleughfoot. " What want ye, friends r" shouted the outlaw — " think ye that a poor man like Sandy Armstrong can gi'e upputtin' and provender for five hundred horse ?" " We come," repUed an oflicer, advancing in firont of the companv, " by the authority o' our gracious prince, James king o' England and Scotland, and in the name o' his com- missioner. Sir William Selby, to punish and hand over to justice Border thieves and outlaws, o' whom we are weel assured that you, Sandy Armstrong, o' the Cleughfoot, are, habit and repute, amangst the chief." " Ye lie ! ye lie !" returned the outlaw ; " ye dyvors in scarlet an' cockades, ye lie ! I hae lived thir fifty years by my ain hand, an' the man was never bom that dared say Sandy Armstrong laid finger on the widow's cow or tlie puLr man's marc, or that he scrimpt the orphan's meaL But I hae been a protector o' the poor and helpless, an' a defender o' the cowan-hearted, for a sma' but honest black- mail, that other men, wi' no half the strength o' Sandy Armstrong, wadna ta'en up at their foot." " Do ye surrender in peace, ye boastin' rebel ?" replied the herald, '■ or shall we bum your den about your ears ?" " I ken it is death ony way ye take it," rejoined the out- law — " ye would shew me an' mine the mercy that vai shewn to my kinsman, John o' Giinokict .and I shall sur- render as anArmstrong surrenders — when the breath is out.* Pistols, f This inlijcrt fomu another of the Border Tales. TALES OF THE BORDERS. 43 J'ire flaslieJ from a narrow crovicc wliicli resembled a cross in tlie turrets — the report of a pistol was heard, and the horse of the herald bounded, and fell beneath him. "That wasna done like an Armstrong, Archy," said the freebooter ; " ye hae shot the horse, an' it might liae been the rider — the man was but doing his duty, an' it was unfair and cowardly to fire on him till the alliay began." " I shall mind again, failher," said Archy, " but I thought, wi' sic odds against us, that every advantage was f;dr." While these events transpired, Elspeth was busied placing powder and balls upon the roof of the turret ; she brought up also a carabine, and putting it in her husband's hands, said — "Tak ye that, Sandy, to aim at their leaders, and gie Archy an' me the dags." The horsemen encompassed the wall ; Sandy, his wife, and his son knelt upon the turret, kee[)ing up, through the crevices, a hurried but deadly fire on their besiegers. It was evident the assailants intended to blow up the w.all. The freebooter beheld the train laid, and the match applied. Already his last bullet was discharged. " Let us fire the straw among the cattle!" cried little Archy. " Weel thought, my bairn I " exclaimed the riever. The boy rushed down into the house, and in an instant returned with a flaming pine torch in his hand. lie dropped it amongst the cattle. He dashed a handful of powder on the sjiot, and in a moment half of the court-yard burst into a flame. At the same instant a part of the court-wall trembled — exploded — fell. The horned cattle and the horses were rushing wildly to and fro through the lire. The invaders burst through the gap. Elspeth tore a pearl drop from her ears,* and, thrusting it in the pistol, discharged it at the head of the first man who ap- I)roached the house. It was evident they intended to blow up the house as they had done the wall. Sandy had now no wea- pon that he could render effective but his spear, and he said — " They shall taste the prick o' the hedgehog before I die." He thrust it down furiously upon them, and several of them fell at his threshold, but the deadly instrument was grasped by a number of the besiegers, and wrenched from his bands. The sun had already set, darkness was gathering over the morass, and still the fire burned, and the cattle rushed amongst the armed men in the court-yard. " Elspeth," said the freebooter, " it is not your life they seek, and they canna hae the heart to harm our bairn. Gie me my Jeddart-staffin my hand — an' fare weel to ye, Elspeth — fareweel ! — an eternal fareweel I Archy, fareweel, my gallant bairn — never disgrace your faither! — but ye wiuna — ye winna — an' if I am murdered, mind ye revenge me, Archy I Now we maun unbar the door, an' I maun cut my way through them or perish." Thus spoke the Borderer, and, with his battle-axe in his hand, he embraced his wife and his son, and wept. " Now, Archy," said he, "slip an' open the door — saftly! — saftly! — — an' let me rush out." Archy silently drew back the massy bars; in a moment the iron door stood ajar, and Sandy Armstrong, b,attle-axe in hand, burst into the court-yard, and into the midst of his besiegers. There was not a man amongst them that had not heard of the "terrible Jeddart-staff o' Sandy Armstrong." He cleaved them down before him — his very voice augmented their confusion — they shrank back at his approach ; and while some fled from the infuriated cattle, others tied from the arm of the freebooter. In a few seconds he reached the gap in the court v.-all — he rushed upon the moss ; — darkness had begun, and a thick vapour was rising from the morass. " Follow nie who dare !" shouted Sandy Armstrong. • The wives and daughters of the Borderers at this period wore numerous triukcts — spoils, no doubt, presented them bj their husbands and wooers. Archy withdrew into a niche in the passage, as his father pushed out; — and as the besiegers speedily burst into the house, amongst them was one of the muffled men* bearing a torch in his hand. Revenge fired the young Borderer, and with his Jedburgh-stalT, he made a dash at the hand of the traitor. The torch fell upon the floor, and with it three of the fingers that grasped it. The besiegers were instantly enveloped in gloom, and Archy, escaping from the niche from whence he had struck the blow, said unto liimself — " I've gien ye u mark to find out wha ye are, neiglibour." The besiegers took possession of Cleughfoot, and the chief men of the party remained in it during the night, while a portion of their followers occupied the court-yard, and others, with their horses, remained on the morass. Archy and his mother were turned from their dwelling, and placed under a guard upon the moss, where they remained throughout the night ; and, in the morning, Cleughfoot was blown up before them. They were conveyed as prisoners to Sir William Selby, who had fixed his quarters near Langholm. " Whom do ye bring me here?" inquired the new-made knight ; " a wife and bairn I — Ilae ye been catching spar- rows and let the eagle escape ? — Whaur hae ye the head and the hand o' the outlaw V " "Troth, Sir Knight," replied an oflicer, "and his head is where it shouldna be — on his ain shouthers. At the dark- enin' he escaped upon the moss ; three troopers, guided by a mufiler and a sluth-dog, pursued him ; an' as we crossed the bog this mornin', we found ane o' the troopers sunk to the middle in't, an' his horse below liim ; and far'er on were the dead bodies o' the other twa, the sluth-dog and the mufiled man. I am sorry, therefore, to inform ye. Sir Knight, that Sandy Armstrong has escaped, but we hae made a bonfire o' his keep, an' brought ye his wife and his son — wha are Armstrongs, soul and body o' them — to do wi' them as ye may judge proper." "Tuts man," replied Sir William, "wad ye hae us to disgrace our royal commission by hangin' an auld wife an' a bairn. Gae awa, ye limmer ye — gae awa wi' your brat," he added, addressing Elspeth, " an' learn to live like honest folk ; for, if ye fa' in my way again, ye shall dance by the crook frae a woodie." " Where can I gang? " said she sorrowfully, as she with- drew. " O Archy ! we hae neither house nor hauld^ friend nor kindred'. — an' wha will shelter the wife and bairn o' poor persecuted Sandy Armstrong ! " " Dinna fret, mother," said Archy ; " though they hae burned Cleughfoot, the stanes are still left, an' I can soon big a bit place to stop in ; nor, while there's a hare in Tarras wood, or a sheep on the Leadhills, shall ye ever w.ant, mother." They returned in sorrow to the heap of ruins that had been their habitation ; and Elspeth, after she had wept long, arose and assisted her son in constructing a hut Irom the ruins, in which they might lay their heads. In two d.ays it was completed, but, on the third day, the disconsolate wife of the freebooter srmk on her bed of rushes, and the sickness of death was in her heart " Oh, speak to me, mother ! " cried Archy ; " what— what can I do lor ye?" "Naethin', my bairn! — naethin' ! " groaned the dying woman — " the sun's lain' dark on the een o' Elspeth Arm- strong ; but, oh, may the saunts o' heaven protect my poor Archy! " She tried to repeat the only prayer she had ever learned. Poor Archy wrung his hands and sobbed aloud. "Dinna die, mother — oh! dinna die!" he exclaimed, "or what will become o' your Archy ! " He rushed from the * A mufSed man w.is one who, for his future safety, assumed a nia.ik or dis;;uise in loading the encmv to the haunt of his neighbours or associates whom he betrayed. 44 TALES OF THE BOIIDEIIS. hut, and with a broken vessel which he had found among the ruins, he brought water from the rivulet. He applied it to her lips— he bathed her brow — "O mother! mother, dinna die ! " he cried again, " and I will get you bread too I " He again hurried from the hut, and bounded across the moss with the fleetness of a young deer. It was four long miles to the nearest habitation, and in it dwelt Ringan Scott, a dependant of the Buccleuchs. There had never been friend- ship between his family and that of Sandy Armstrong, but, in the agony of Archy's feelings, he stopped not to think of that nor of aught but his dying mother. He rushed into the house — " Gie me bread! " he exclaimed wildly, " for the love o' heaven gie me bread, for my mother is perishin' ! " "Let her perish! — an' may ye a' perish !" said a young man, the son of Eingan, who stood by the fire with his right hand in a sling, " ye's get nae bread here." " I maun ! — I shall ! " cried Archy vehemently. Half of a coarse cake lay upon the table, he snatched it up, and rushed out of the house. They pursued him for a time, but affection and despair gave wings to his speed. Breath- less, he reached the wretched hut, and, on entering, he cried— "Mother, here is bread! I have gotten't ! I have gotten't I " But his mother answered him not. " Speak, mother ! O mother, speak ! — here is bread now — eat it an' ye'U be bet- ter I " he cried, but his mother was still silent. He took her hand in his — "Are ye sleepin', mother?" he added — "here is bread 1 " He shook her gently, but she stirred not. He placed his hand upon her face, it was cold as the rude walls of the hut, and her extended arms were stiff and motion- less. He raised them and they fell heavily and lifeless. "Mother! — mother!" screamed Archy; but his mother Avas dead ! He rushed from the hut wildly, tearing his hair — he flung himself upon the ground — he called upon his flither, and the glens of Tarras echoed the cry; but no father was near to answer. He flew back to the hut. He knelt by his mother's corpse — he rubbed her face and her bosom — he placed his lips to hers, and again he invoked her to speak. Night drew on, and as darkness fell over the ghastly features of the corpse, he fled with terror from the hut, and wandered weeping throughout the night upon the Hioss. At sunrise he returned, and again sat down and wept by the dead body of his mother. He became familiar with death, and his terror died away. Two nights more passed on, and the boy sat in the desolate hut in the wilderness, watching and mourning over the life- less body of his mother. On the fourth day, he took a frag- ment of the iron gate, and began to dig her grave. He raised the dead body in his arms, and weeping, screaming, as he went, he bore it to the tomb he had prepared for it. He gently placed it in the cold earth, and covered it with the moss and the green sod. All the day long he toiled in roll- ing and carrying stones from the ruins of his father's house, to erect a cairn over his mother's grave. When his task was done, he wrung his hands, and exclaimed, " Now, poor Archy Armstrong hasna a friend in the wide world ! " While he yet stood mourning over the new-made gi'ave, a party of horsemen, who were still in quest of his father, rode up and accosted him. His tragic tale was soon told, and, in the bitterness of his heart, he accused them as being the mur- derers of his father and his mother. Amongst them was one of the chief men of the Elliot clan, who held lands in the neighbourhood. He felt compassion for Archj', and he admired liis spirit ; and, desiring him to follow him, he pro- mised to provide for him. Archy reluctantly obeyed, and he was employed to watch the sheep of his protector on the hills. Eighteen years passed away. Archy was now tliirty years of age ; he had learned to read, and even to write, like the monks that were in Melrose. He was the principal herdsman of his early benefactor, and was as much beloved as his father I had been feared. But at times the spirit of the freebooter would burst forth ; and he had not forgiven the persecutors, or, as he called them, the murderers of his parents. Amongst these was one called "Fingerless Dick," the son of Eingan Scott, of whom we have spoken. Archy had long known that he was one of the muffled men who had conducted Selby's horsemen to his father's house, and that he was the same from whose hand he dashed the torch with his battle- axe. Now, there was to be a football fray in Liddesdale, and the Borderers thronged to it from many miles. Archy was there, and tliere also was his enemy — " Fingerless Dick." They quarrelled — they closed — both came to the ground, but Scott was undermost. He drew his knife — he stabbed his antagonist in the side — he was repeating the thrust when Archy wrenched the weapon from his hand, and, in the fury of the moment, plunged it in his breast. At first the wound was believed to be mortal, and an attempt was made to seize Archy, but clutching an oaken cudgel from the hands of one who stood near him — " Lay hands on me wha dare!" he cried, as he brandished it in the air, and fled at his utmost speed. On the third day after the fray in Liddesdale, he entered Dumfries. He was weary and wayworn, for he had fled from hill to hUl, and from glen to glen, fearing pursuit. He inquired for a lodging, and was shewn to a small house near the foot of a street leading to the river, and which we believe is now called the Back Vennel ; and in which he was told " the pig folk and other travellers put up for the night." There was a motley group in the house, beggars and chapmen, and amongst the former was an old man of uncommon stature ; and his hair, as white as snow, descend- ed down upon his shoulders. His beard was of equal white- ness, and fell upon his breast. An old gray cloak covered his person, which was fastened round his body with a piece of rope instead of a girdle. He appeared as one who had been in foreign wars, and he wore a shade or patch over his left eye. He spoke but little, but he gazed often and wist- fully on the countenance of Archy, and more than once a tear found its way dov/n his weather-beaten cheeks. In the morning when Archy rose to depart, " Whither gang ye, young man ? " inquired the old beggar earnestly — " are ye for the north or for the south ? " "Wherefore speir ye, auld man?" replied Archy. " I hae a cause, an' ane that winna harm ye," said the stran- ger, " if ye will thole an auld man's company for a little way." Archy agreed that he should accompany him, and they took the road towards Annan together. It was a calm and glorious morning : the Solway flashed in the sunlight like a silver lake, and not a cloud rested on the brow of the majestic Criffel. For the space of three miles they proceed- ed in silence, but the old man sighed oft and heavily, as though his spirits were troubled. " Let us rest here for a few minutes," said he, as he sat down on a green knoll by the way-side, and gazing steadfastly in Archy's face — " Young man," he added, " your face brings owre my heart the memories o' thirty years — and, oh ! persecuted as the name is — answer me truly if your name be Armstrong ? " "It is!" replied Archy, "and perish the son o' Sandy Armstrong when he disowns it!" " An' your faither — your mother," continued the old man hesitating as he spoke — "do they — does she live?" In a few words Arcliy told of his father's persecution — of his being hunted from the country like a wild beast — of tlie destruction of the home of his childhood — of his mother's death, and of her burial by his own hands in the wilderness. " Oh ! my poor Elspeth ! " cried the aged beggar ; "Archy! my son! my son! I am your faither! Sandy Armstrong, the outlaw ! " "My faither!" exclaimed Archy, pressing the beggar to his breast. When they had wept together, " Let us gae TALES OF THE BOKDEllS. 45 nae farer south," said llie old man, " but lot us return to Torras moss, tliat when the liami o' death conns, yc may lay ino down in jx'acL' by tlio side of my Klspclh." With a sorrowful heart Arehy told his fallier that he was flying from the law and the vengeiuiee of the Scotts. " Gie thcin gowd as a peaoe-otVeriiig," said the old man, and he pulled from heiu'ath his coarse cloak a leathern puise filled with gold, and placed it in the iuuids of his son. For nearly twenty years iiiudy had served in foreign wars, and obtained honours and rewards ; and on visiting his native land, ho had assumed the beggar's garb for safety. They returned to Tarras-side together, and a few yellow coitis quashed the prosecution of " Fingerless Dick." Arcliy married the daughter of his former employer, and became a sheep-farmer ; and, at the age of fourscore years and ten, the old freebooter closed his eyes in peace in the house of his son, and in the midst of his grandchildren, and was buried, according to his own retjucst, by the side of Elspeth in the wildcniess. THE WIDOWS AE SON. \Vr will not name the village where the actors in the fol- lowing incidents resided ; and it is sufficient for our purpose to say, that it lay in the county of Berwick, and within the jurisdiction of the Presbytery of Dunse. Eternity has gathered forty winters intoitsbosom since the principal events took place. Janet JolTrey was left a widow before her only cliild had completed his tenth year. While her husband lay upon his deathbed, be called her to his bedside, and, taking ner hand within his, he groaned, gazed oa her face, and said — " Now, J;inet, I'm gaun a lang an' a dark journey ; but ye winna forget, Janet — ye winna forget — for ye ken it has aye been uppermost in my thoughts, and first in my desires, to mak Thamas a minister — promise me that ae thing, Janet, that, if it be IIis ^vill, ye will see it performed, an' I will die in peace." In sorrow the pledge was given, and in joy performed. Her life became rapt up in her son's life; and it was her morning and her evening prayer that she might live to see her " dear Thamas a shining light in the kirk." Often she declared that he was an " aukl farrant bairn, and could ask a blessing like ony minister." Our wishes and affections, however, often blind our judgment. Nobody but the mother thought the son fitted for the kirk, nor the kirk fitted for him. There was always something original, almost poetical, about him — but still Thomas was " no orator as Brutus was." His mother had few means beyond the labour of her hands for their support. She had kept him at the parish school until he was fifteen, and he had learned all that Lis master knew; and in three years more, by rising early and sitting late at her dail}' toils, and the savings of his field labour and occasional teaching, she was enabled to make preparation for sending him to Edinburgh. Never did her wheel spin so blithely since her husband was taken from her side, as when she put the first lint upon the rock for his coUegi; sarks. Proudly did she shew to her neighbours her double spinel yarn — observing, " It's nae finer than he deserves, poor fallow, for he'll pay me back some day." The web was bleached and the shirts made by her own hands ; ,ind the day of his dep.xrture arrived. It was a day of joy mingled with anguish He attended the classes regularly nnd faithfully; and truly as St Giles' marked the hour, the long, lean figure of Thomas Jeffrej-, tn a suit of shabby black, and half a dozen volumes under his arm, was seen issuing flora bis garret in the AVest Bow — d.arting down the frail stair with the velocity of a shadow — measuring the Law^l- niarket and High Street with gigantic strides — gliiling like a ghost up the ISouth Bridge, and sailing through thegothic arch way of the college, till the punctual student was lost in its inner chambers. Years rolled by, and nt length the great the awful day arrived — " Big with tlic fato of Tlionuw aiiil l.in motlicr." Ho w.as to preach his trial sermon — and wh I hope there's nae fears o' ye slicUin' or using notes?" " Dinna fret, mother — dinna fret," rejilied the young divine • " stickiu' .an" notes are out o' the question. I hae every word o' it as clink as the A B C." The ajipnintcd hour arrived She was first at the kirk. Her heart felt too big for her bosom. She could not sit — she walked again to the air — she trembled back — she gazed restless on the pulpit. The p.'irish minister gave out the Psalm — the book shook while she held it. The minister prayed — again gave out a Psalm, and left the pulpit. The book fell from JIrs Jeffrey's hand. A tall figure paced along the passage. He reached the pulpit stairs — took two steps at once. It was a bad omen — but arose from the length of his limbs, not levity. He opened the door — his knees smote one upon another. He sat down — he was paler than death. He rose — his bones were paralytic. The Bible was opened — his mouth opened at the same time, and remained open, but said nothing. His large eyes stared wildly around ; at length his teeth chat- tered, and the text was announced, though half the congre- gation disputed it. " Jly brethren !" said he once, and the whiteness of his countenance increased; but he said no more. " My bre — thren !" responded he a second time ; his teeth chattered louder ; his cheeks became clammy and deathlike. " J[y brethren !" stammered he a third time, emphatically and his knees fell together. A deep groan echoed from his mother's pew. His wildness increased — " 3Iy mother I" exclaimed the preacher. They were the last words he ever uttered in a pulpit. The shaking and the agony began in his heart, and bis body caught the contagion. He covered his face with his hands, fell back, and wept. His mother screamed aloud, and fell back also — and thus perished her toils, her husband's prayer, her fond anticipations, and the pulpit oratory of her son. A few neighbours crowded round her to console her, and render her assistance. They led het to the door. She gazed upon them with a look of vacancy — thrice sorrowfully waved her hand, in token that they should leave her ; for their words fell upon her heart like dew upon a furnace. Silently she arose and left them, and reaching her cottage, threw herself upon her bed in bitterness. She shed no tears, neither did she groan, but her bosom heaved with burning agony. Sickness smote Thomas to his very heart ; yea, even unto blindness he was sick. His tongue was like heated iron in his mouth, and his throat like a parched land. lie was led from the pulpit. But he escaped not the persecution of the unfeeling titter, and the expres- sions of shallow pity. He would have rejoiced to have dwelt in darkness for ever, but there was no escape from the eyes of his tormentors. The congregation stood in groups in the kirkyard, "just," as they said, '' to hae anither look at the orator ;" and he must pass through tbp midst of them. Witii his very soul steeped in shame, and his cheeks covered with confusion, he stepped from the kirk-door A humming noise issued through the crowd, and every one turned their faces towards him. His misery was greater than he could bear." Yonwas oratory for ye!" said one. " Poor deevil ! addea mother, " I'm sorry for him — but it was as guid as a play." " ^\'iis it tragedy or comedy .''" i-iquircd a third laughing ^ bespoke. The remarks fell upon his er.r — h« 46 TALES OF THE BORDERS. grated his teeth in madness, but he could indure no more ; and, covering his face with his liands, he bound oif like a wounded deer to his mother's cottage. In despair he entered the house, scarce knowing what he did. He beheld her where slie had fallen upon the bed, dead to all but misery. " O mother, mother !" he cried, " dinna ye be angry — dinna ye add to the afflictions of your son 1 Will ye no, mother ? — will ye no ?" k low groan was his only answer. He hurried to and fro across the room, wringing his handa " Mother," he again exclaimed, " will ye no speak ae word ? Oh, woman ! ye wadna be angry if ye kenned what an awfu' thing it is to see a thousan' een below ye and aboon ye, and round about ye, a' staring upon ye like condemning judges, an' looking into your very soul — ye hae nae idea o' it, mother — I tell ye, ye hae nae idea o't, or ye wadna be angry. The very pulpit floor gaed down wi' me — the kirk wa's gaed round about, and I thought the very crown o' my head wad pitch on the top o' the precentor. The very een o' the multitude soomed round me like fishes ! — an' oh, woman 1 are ye dumb ? will ye torment me mair ? can ye no speak, mother?" But he spoke to one who never spoke again. Her reason departed, and her speech failed, but grief remained. She had lived upon one hope, and that hope was destroyed. Her round ruddy cheeks and portly form wasted away, and within a few weeks, the neighbours who performed the hist office of humanity, declared that a thinner corpse was never wrapt in a winding sheet than Mrs. Jeffrey. Time soothed, but did not heal the sorrows, the shame, and the disappointment of the son. He sank into a village teacher, and often in the midst of his little school, he would quote his first, his only text — imagine the children to be his congregation — attempt to proceed — gaze wildly round for a moment, and sit do^vn and weep. Through these aberrations his school dwindled into nothingness — and poverty increased his delirium. Once, in the midst of the remaining few, he gave forth the fatal text. " My brethren I" he exclaimed, and smitting his hand upon his forehead, cried, "Speak, mother I — speak now I" and fell with his face upon the floor. The children rushed screaming from the school, and, when the villagers entered, the troubled spirit had fled for ever. AN OLD TAR'S YARN, Some years ago, half a dozen friends and myself visted Green- wich Hospital. Our conductor was a weather-beaten middle- aged tar, whose larboard ghm had been douced since boyhood with the smaU-pox, and his starboard fin was carried away by a chain shot. By the gold lace which he sported on his cha- peau, the sleeves of his coat, &c., he appeared to hold the rank of boatswain in the college. He was a communicative old boy ; and we felt indebted to his civilities. He, however, spurned the idea of being rewarded with money. "No, blow it!" he exclaimed, " not a tissey, not a single brown— but a drop of grog, gemmem, if you please." So saying, he led the way to a neighbouring tavern, and entrenched himself in a corner of the parlour, with which he seemed intimately familiar. 1 placed myself at his elbow with the intention of drawing from hira some favonrite yarn. During the first glass he spoke only of the hospital ; during the second, he advanced to actions and bombardments ; but, as he finished the third, as if to in- duce us to call for a fourth, he said, " But it's of no use talk- ing about battles and them sort of things ; gemmem, by your leave, I'll tell you a bit of a story — it's a story that has made many a brave fellow waste his salt water; and, by the way, I may say it's about a countryman of your own, too — for Tom Beaumont was bom in Newcastle, and he was a boy, man, mate, and master of a Shields collier, many a long day During our last scuffle with the Yankees, I was master-gunner of as handsome a gun-brig as ever did credit to a dock-yard, or dipped a keel in the water. Love ye, it would have doTe your eyes good to have seen her skimming before the wind, and breasting the billows as gently as a boy's first kiss, which only touches the cheek, and that's all. Then we carried fourteen as pretty guns as ever drove a bullet through a Frenchman's timbers. Old Tom Beaimiont — (God bless him!) — was our commander, and a better soul never cracked a bis- cuit. He was a hardy seaman to the backbone, an upright and down-straight fear-nothing ; but the kindest-hearted fel- low in the world, for all that. Well, gemmem, as I'm sajnng — Tom (we always called him Tom, because we loved him) mar- ried young, and, for two years he was the happiest dog ahve. He had'a wife as pretty as an angel, and as good as himself; and a little rogue their son — the very picture of his own face in a button — who was beginning to climb upon his knee and pull his whiskers. Man alive couldn't desire more — tlie very scene might make a Dutchman dance, or a Russian happy. After two years fair wind and weather, however, in all mortal reckoning it was reasonable to expect squalls. Beaumont had not then joined the navy in a regular way ; and at that period he found it necessary to proceed to America, where he had entered into extensive mercantile speculations. Finding that he should be compelled to remain there much longer than he dreamed of, he sent for his wife and child. They sailed — but it proved a last voyage to a new wjrld. However, gemmen, it's a voyage we mvist all take, from the admiral do^vn to the cabin-boy — that's one comfort; and maj we, by the aid of a good chart, steer clear of the enemy's lee- shore and brimstone shoals ! Poor Tom's inquiries were fruit- less; no one ever heard of the vessel, and no one ever doubted that all hands were as low as Davy Jones. It was like a shot between wind and water to Beaumont; but he bore up aftui a way, though it had shivered his mainsheet. Well, as I was saying, it was during our last scufHe with the Yankees, more than twenty years after Tom had lost his wife and child — w^e were returning with the httle brig from the West Indies, when I was roused in my hammock by a bustle upon deck, and the cry of ' A Yankee t' I sprang up at the glorious news, and through the clear moonlight perceived an impudent-look- ing lub'oer bearing upon us full sail, and displaying Ameri- can colours. ' Haul to, my ladsl' cried old Beaumont ; ' lei them smell powder for breakfast.' Small time was lost in obey- ing the order; for we were always in readiness for welcome company. Twice they attempted to board us, but were driven ^ back for their kindness with some score of broken heads, and I the loss of some himdred American fingers. After two hours' • hard peppering, Beaumont, seizing a lucky moment, ordered us to throw in a broadside. Every shot told ; the Yankee began to stagger, and in a few minutes gave evidence that her swim- ming days were ended. ' 'Vast firing!' cried Beaumont ; 'let us save a brave enemy. He repeated the word enemy; and 1 heard him mutter, ' flesh of our o^vn flesh.' The vessel was riddled like the hd of a pepper-box, and sank so rapidly that we were able to save only thirty of her crew. Their captain was among the number, and a gallant-looking youth he was; but, in their last attempt to board us, Beaumont had wounded him on the shoulder with his cutlass. The blood ran down his arm, and poured from his fingers; yet the brave soul never whispered it, nor made a wry face upon the matter, but stood and saw his countrymen attended to. Nature, however, gave way, and he fell upon the deck. Beaumont eagerly raised him in his arms, and conveyed him to his own bed. On ex- amining his wound, the surgeon took the portrait of a beauti- ful lady from his breast, and handed it to the commander. Poor old Tom gazed upon it for a moment — he started — h« uttered a sudden scream — I thought he had gone mad. 'Do you remember tliat face?' he exclaimed. How could I for- get itl to have seen it once was to renien-ber it a hundred TALES OF THE BORDEUS. 47 years — it was his wife's ! I won't tire you with a long story," continued the narrator, " for it's all true and no yarn. For several days the gallant young American lay delirious, as the doctor called it. But— I can't describe it to you, geninien — had you seen poor old Tom during all the time ! No, hang me, I can't describe it ! The youth also wore upon his fin- ger a diamond ring, upon which were inscribed the names of Beaumont and his long- lost Eleanor. Flesh and blood could not stand the sight — there was the old man keeping watch by the bedside, night and day, weeping like a child, pacing the cabin floor, beating his breast — and sometimes snatching the hand of the poor sufferer to his lips, and calling him his murdered son, and himself the murderer. Then he would doubt again, and doubt made him worse. At length the doctor declared the invalid out of danger, and said the commander might put to him any question he pleased. I wish I could tell you this scene ; but I can't. However, there sat the full, bursting-hearted old boy, the big tears pouring down his cheeks, with the hand of the young Ame- rican in his ; and, sobbing like a child, he inquired, ' Were you born an American ? ' The youth trembled — his heart filled, and he wept, just like old Tom. 'Alas!' said he, ' I know not ; I have been educated an American. I only know that I was saved by the good old man who adopted me as his son, and who found me almost lifeless, in the arms of a dying wom.an, on the raft of a deserted wreck, which the winds had driven on shore. My unfortunate mother could only recommend me to his care, and died.' The very heart and soul of the old tar wept. ' And this portrait, and this ring?' he exclaimed breathless, and shaking like a yacht in a hurricane. ' The portrait,' replied the youth, ' was a part of what my mother had saved from the wreck, and, as I was told by my foster-father, is a likeness of herself. The ring was taken from her finger, and from the engraving upon it, I have borne the name of Beaumont.' " My son I — my own Tom I — child of my Eleanor I ' cried the happy old father, hugging him to his breast. Gemmen, you can imagine the rest," said our one-armed companion ; and, raising the fourth glass to his lips, he added, "and by your permission here's a health to old Tom Beaumont, and his son, Heaven bless them ! " THE DEATH OF THE CHEVALIEE DE LA BEAUTE. It was near midnight, on the 12th of October, 1516, when a horseman, spurring his jaded steed, rode furiously down the path leading to the strong tower of Wedderburn. He alighted at the gate, and knocked loudly for admission. "What would ye? " inquired the warder from the turret. " Conduct me to your chief," was the laconic reply. " Is your message so urgent that ye must deliver it to- night? " continued the warder, who feared to kindle the fiery temper of his master, by disturbing him with a trilling errand. "Urgent! — babbler! "replied the other, impatiently — "to- day the best blood of the Homes has been lapped by dogs iipon the street ; and I have seen it." The warder aroused the domestics in the tower, and the stranger entered. He was conducted into a long, gloomy apartment, dimly lighted by a solitary lamp. Around him hung rude portraits of the chiefs of Wedderburn, and on the walls were suspended their arms and the spoils of their victories. The solitary apartment seemed like the tomb of war. Every weapon around him had been rusted with the blood of Scotland's enemies. It was a fitting theatre for the recital of a tale of death. He had gazed around for a few minutes, when heavy footsteps were heard, and the next moment Sir David Home entered— armed as for the field. "Your errand, stranger? " said the young chief of Wed- derburn, fi.xing a searching glance upon iiim as he spoke. The stranger bowed, and replied — "The Regent" "Ay!" interrupted Hume, "the enemy of our house — the creature of our hands, whom we lifted from e.xile to sovereignty, and who now with his minions tracks our path like a blood-hound! — what of this gracious Regent? Are ye too one of his myrmidons, and seek ye to strike the lion in his den ? " "Nay," answered the other; "but from childhood the fuitliful retainer of your murdered kinsman." " My murdered kinsman ! " exclaimed Wedderburn, grasp- ing the arm of the other, "what! — more blood 1 — more! — What mean ye, stranger?" "That, to gratify the revenge of tlio Regent Albany," replied the other, "my Lord Home andyour kinsman William have been betrayed and murdered. Calunmy has blasted their honour. Twelve hours ago I beheld their heads tossed like footballs by the foot of the common executioner, and afterwards fixed over the porch of the Nether Bow, for the execration and indignities of the slaves of Albany. All day the blood of the Homes has dropped upon the pavement, where the mechanic and the clown pass over and tread on it." "Hold!" cried Home, and the dreary hall echoed with his voice. " No more !" he continued; and he paced hurriedly for a few minutes across the apartment, casting a rapid glance upon the portraits of his ancestors. " By heavens I they chide me," he exclaimed, " that my sword sleeps in the scabbard, while the enemies of the house of Home triumph." He drew his sword, and approaching the picture of his father, he pressed the weapon to his lips, and continued — "By the soul of my ancestors, I swear upon this blade that the proud Albany and his creatures shall feel that one Home still lives!" He dashed his weapon back into its siieath, and approaching the stranger, drew him towards thp. lamp, and said — "Ye are Trotter, who was my cousin's henchman, are ye not? " "The same," replied the messenger. "And ye come to rouse me to revenge," added Sir David ; " ye shall have it, man — revenge that shall make the Regent weep — revenge that the four corners of the earth shall hear of, and history record. Ye come to remind me that my tiUher and my brother fell on the field of Flodden, in defence of a foolish king, and that I, too, bled there — that there also lie the bones of my kinsman Cuthbert of Fastcastle, of my brother Cockburn and his son, and the father and brother of my Alison. Ye come to remind me of this ; and that, as a reward for the shedding of our blood, the head of the chief of our house has been fixed upon the gate of Edinburgh as food for the carrion crow and the night owl. Go, get re- freshment, then to rest, and dream of other heads exalted as your Lite master's is, and I will interpret your visions." Trotter bowed and withdrew, and Lady Alison entered. " Ye are agitated, husband," said the gentle lady, laying her hand upon his — "hath the man brought evil tidings?" " Can good tidings come to a Homo," answered Sir David, " while the tyrant Albany rides rough-shod over the nobility of Scotland, and, like a viper, stings the bosom that nursed him ? Away to thy chamber, Alison — leave me — it is no tale for women's ears." "Nay, if you love me, toll me," she replied, laying her hand upon his brow, " for since your return from the field of Flodden, I have not seen you look thus." "This is no time to talk of love, Aley," added he; "but come — leave me, silly one — it concerns not thee ; no evil hath overtaken the house of Blackadder, but the Homes have become a mark for the arrows of desolation, and their necks a footstool for tyrants. Away, Alison — to-night I can think of but one word, and that is — vengeance!" m TALES OF THE BOllDERS. Lady Alison wept and witlidrew in silence ; and Wed- derbiim paced the floor of the gloomy hall, meditating in what manner he should most effectually resent the death of his kinsman. It was only a few weeks after the execution of the Earl of Home and his brother, that the Regent Albany offered an additional insult to his family by appointing Sir Anthony D'Arcy warden of the east marches — an office which the Homes had held for ages. D'Arcy was a Frenchman, and the favourite of the Regent ; and, on account of the comeli- ness of his person, obtained the appellation of the Sieur de la Beaule. The indignation of Wedderbum had not slum- bered, and the conferring the honours and the power that had hitherto been held by his family upon a foreigner, incensed him to almost madness. For a time, however, no oppor- tunity offered of causing his resentment to be felt ; for, D'Arcy was as much admired for the discretion and justice if his government as for the beauty of his person. To his care the Regent had committed young Cockbum. the heir of Langton, who was the nephew of Wedderburn. This the Homes felt as a new indignity, and, together with the Cockbums, they forcibly ejected from Langton castle the tutors whom D'Arcy had placed over their kinsman. The tidings of this event were brought to the Chevalier while he was holding a court at Kelso, and immediately summoning together his French retainers and a body of yeomen, he pro- ceeded with a gay and a gallant company by way of Fogo to Langton. His troop drew up in front of the castle, and their gay plumes and burnished trappings glittered in the sun. The proud steed of the Frenchman was covered with a panoply of gold and silver, and he himself was decorated as for a bridal. He rode haughtily to the gate, and de- manded the inmates of the castle to surrender. " Surrender ! boasting Gaul !" replied William Cockbum, the uncle of the young laird ; " that is a word the men of Merse have yet to learn. But yonder comes my brother Wedderburn — speak it to him." D'Arcy turned round, and beheld Sir David Home and a party of horsemen bearing down upon them at full speed. The Chevalier drew back, and waiting their approach, placed himself at the head of his company. " By the mass ! Sir Warden," said Sir David, riding up to D'Arcy, "and ye have brought a goodly company to visit my nephew. Come ye in peace, or what may be your errand }" " I wish peace," replied the Chevalier, " and come to enforce the establishment of my rights — why do ye interfere between me and my ward?" " Does a Frenchman talk of his rights upon the lands of Home ?" returned Sir David, " or by whose authority is mj' nephew your ward .''" " By the authority of the Regent, rehel Scot !" retorted D'Arcy. " By the authority of the Regent !" interrupted Wedder- burn — ''dare ye, foreign minion, speak of the authority of the murderer of the Earl of Home, while within the reach of the sword of his kinsman ?" " Ay ! and in his teeth dare tell him," replied the Cheva- lier " that the Home now before me is not less a traitor than he who proved false to his sovereign on the field of Flodden, who conspired against the Regent, and whose head now adorns the port of Edinburgh." " AV retch !" exclaimed the henchman Trotter, dashing forward, and raising his sword, " said ye that my master proved false at Flodden .''" " Hold !" exclaimed Wedderburn, grasping his arm — " Gramercy ! ye uncivilised dog ! for the sake of your mas- ter's head would ye lift your hand against that face which ladies die to look upon. Pardon me, most beautiful Cheva- lier ! the salutation of my servant may be too rough for your French palate, but vou and vour master treated my kinsman somewhat more roughly. What say ye. Sir Warden < do ye depart in peace, or wisn ye tnat we should try the temper of our Border steel upon your French bucklers ?" " Depart ye in peace, vain boaster," replied D'Arcy, " lest a worse thing befall vim." " Then on, my merry men !" cried Wedderburn, " and to-day the head of the Regent's favourite — the Chevalier of Beauty — for the head of the Earl of Home !" " The house of Home and revenge !" shouted his follow- ers, and rushed upon the armed band of D'Arcy. At first the numbers were nearly equal, and the contest was terribi* Each man fought hand to hand, and the ground was con- tested inch by inch. The gilded ornaments of the French horses were covered with blood, and their movements wer^ encumbered by their weight. The sword of Wedderburn had already smitten three of the Chevalier's followers to the ground, and the two chiefs now contended in single combat D'Arcy fought with the fury of despair, but Home continued to bear upon him as a tiger that has been robbed of its cubs. Every moment the force of the Chevalier was thin- ned, and every instant the number of his enemies increased » as the neighbouring peasantry rallied round the standard of their chief. Finding the most faithful of his followers stretched upon the earth, D'Arcy sought safety in flight. Dashing his silver spurs into the sides of his noble steed, he turned his back upon his desperate enemy, and rushed along in the direction of Pouterleiny, and through Dunse, with the hope of gaining the road to Dunbar, of which town he was governor. Fiercely, Wedderburn followed at his heels, with his naked sword uplifted, and ready to strike; imme- diately behind him, rode Trotter, the henchman of the late Earl, and another of Home's followers named Dickson. It was a fearful sight as they rushed through Dunse, their horses striking fire from their heels in the light of the very sunbeams ; and the swerd of the pursuer within a few feet of the fugitive. Still, the Chevalier rode furiously, urging on the gallant animal that bore him, which seemed conscious that the life of its rider depended upon its speed. His flaxen locks waved behind him in the wind, and the voice of his pursuers ever and anon fell upon his ear, like a dagger of death thrust into his bosom. The horse upon which Wed- derburn rode, had been wounded in the conflict, and, as the/ drew near Broomhouse, its speed slackened, and his followers. Trotter and Dickson, took the lead in the pursuit. TJie Chevalier had reached a spot on the right bank of the Whit- adder, which is now in a field of the farm of Swallowdean, when his noble steed, becoming entangled with its cumbrous trappings, stumbled, and hurled its rider to the earth. The next moment, the swords of Trotter and Dickson, were transfixed in the body of the unfortunate Chevalier. " Off with his head !" exclaimed Wedderburn, who at the same instant reached the spot. The bloody mandate was readily obeyed ; and Home, taking the bleeding head in his band, cut off the flaxen tresses, and tied them as a trophy to his saddle-bow. The body of the Clievalhr de la Beauli was rudely buried on the spot where he fell. An humble stone marks out the scene of the tragedy, and the people in the neighbourhood yet call it — " Banty's grave." The head of the Chevalier was carried to Dunse, where it was fixed upon a spear, at the cross, and Wedderburn exclaimed — •' Thus be exalted the enemies of the house of Home! The bloody relic was then borne in triumph to Home castle, and placed upon the battlements. " There," said Sir David, "let the Regent climb when he returns from Franc* for the head of his favourite — it is thus that Home of Wed- derburn revenges the murder of his kinJred." W 1 1. S N ' S TALES OF THE BORDEllS. THE PROCRASTINATOR. Being ovprtaken by a shower in Kensington Gardens, I sought shelter in one of tlie alcoves near the palace. I was scarce seated when the storm burst with all its fury ; and I observed an old fellow, who had stood loitering till the hurricane whistled round his ears, making towards tne as rapidly as his apparently palsied limbs would permit. Upon his nearer approach, he appeared rather to have suffered from infirmity than years. He wore a brownish- black coat, or rather shell, which, from its dimensions, had never been intended for the wearer; and his inexpressibles were truly inexpressible. "So," said I, as he seated him- self on the bench, and shook the rain from his old broad- brimmed hat, "you see, old boy, ^Procrastination is the dtiefof tiin€;' the clouds gave you a hint of what was com- ing, but you seemed not to take it." "It is," replied he, e-agerly. " Doctor Young is in the right. Procrastination has been my curse since I was in leading strings. It has grown with my growth, and strengthened with my strength. It has ever been my besetting sin — my companion in pro- sperity and adversity; and I have slept upon it, like Samson on the lap of Delilah, till it has shorn my locks and deprived tne of my strength. It has been to me a witch, a manslayer, and a murderer ; and when I woidd have shaken it off in wrath and in disgust, I found I was no longer master of my own actions and my own house. It had brought around me a host of its blood-relations — its sisters and its cousins- german — to fatten .on my weakness, and haunt me to the grave ; so that when I tore myself from the embrace of one, it was only to be intercepted by another. You are young. Sir, and a stranger to me, but its effects upon me, and my history — the history of a poor paralytic shoemaker — if you have patience to hear, may serve as a beacon to you in your voyage through life." Upon expressing my assent to his proposal — for the fluency and fervency of his manner had at once riveted my attention, and excited curiosity — lie continued : — " I was born without a fortune, as many people are. When about five years of age, I was sent to a parish school in Uoxburghshire, and procrastination went with me. Being possessed of a tolerable memory, I was not more deficient than my schoolfellows ; but the task which they had studied the previous evening, was by me seldom looked at till the following morning; and my seat was the last to bo occupied of any other on the form. My lessons were committed to memory by a few hurried glances, and repeated with a falter- ing rapidity, which not unfrequently puzzled the ear of the teacher to follow me. But what was thus hastily learned, was as suddenly forgotten. They were mere surface impres- sions, each obliterated by the succeeding. And though I had run over a tolerable general education, I left school but little wiser than when I entered it. "My parents — peace to their memory!" — here the old fellow looked most feelingly, and a tear of filial recollection glistened in his eyes; it added a dignity to the recital of his weakness, and I almost reverenced him — " My jiarents," continued he, " had no ambition to see me rise higher in society than an honest tradesman ; and, at thirteen, I was bound apprentice to a shoemaker. Yes, Sir, I was — I am a shoemaker ; and but for my curse — my malady — had 7. Xou I. been an ornament to my profession. 1 have measured tlie foot of a princess. Sir; I have made slippers to his Majesty!" Here his tongue acquired new vigour from the idea of his own importance. " Yes, Sir, I have made slippers to his Majesty — yet I am an unlucky — I am a bewitched — I am a ruined man. But to proceed with my history. During the first year of my apprenticeship I acted in the capacity of errand-boy; and, as such, had to run upon many an unplea- sant message — sometimes to ask money, frequently to borrow it. Now, Sir, I am also a haslifuL man, and as I was saying, Bashfulness is one of the blood-relations which procrastina- tion lias fastened upon me. While acting in my last-men- tioned capacity, I have gone to the house— gazed at every window — passed it and repassed it — placed my hand upon the rapper — withdrawn it — passed it and repassed it again — stood hesitating and consulting with myself — then resolved to defer it to the next day, and finally returned to my mas- ter, not with a direct lie, but a broad equivocation ; and this was another of the cousins-german which procrastination introduced to my acquaintance. " In the third year of my servitude, I became fond of reading; was esteemed a quick workman ; and, having no desire for money beyond what was necessary to supply my wants, I gave iinrestrlcted indulgence to my new passion. \^'e had each an allotted quantity of work to perform weekly. Conscious of being able to complete it in half the time, and having yielded myself solely to my ruinous pro- pensity to delay, I seldom did anything before the Thursday ; and the remaining days were spent in hurry, bustle, and confusion. Occasionally I overrated my abilities — my task was unfinished, and I was compelled to count a dead horse. Week after week this grew upon me, till I was so firmly saddled, that, until the expiration of my apprenticeship, I was never completely freed from it. This was another of my curse's handmaidens." Here he turned to me with a look of seriousness, and said — "Beware, young man, how you trust to your own strength and your own talents; for, however noble it may be to do so, let it be in the open Jield, before you are driven into a corner, where your arms may come in contact with the thorns and the angles of the hedges. " About this time, too, I fell in love— yes, fell in love— for I just beheld the fair object, and I was a dead man, or a new man, or anything you will. Frequently as I have looked and acted like a fool, I believe I never did so so strikingly as at that moment. She was a beautiful girl — a very angel of light — about five feet three inches high, and my own a^e. Ileavcn knows how I ever had courage to declare my passion ; for I put it off day alter daj', and week after week, always preparing a new speech against the next time of meeting her, until three or four rivals stepped forward before me. At length I did speak, and never was love more clumsily declared. I told her in three words ; then looked to the ground, and again in her face most pitifully. She received my addresses just as saucily as a pretty girl could do. But it were useless to go over our courtship— it was the only happy period of my existence, and every succeed- ing day has been misery. Matters were eventually brought to a bearing, and the fatal day of final felicity appointed. I was yet young, and my love possessed all the madness of a first passion. She not only occupied my heart, but my whole thoughts ; I could think of nothing else — speak of nothing else — and, what was worse, do nothing else; 50 TALES OF THE BOEDEES it burned up the very capabilities of action, and ren- dered my native indolence yet more indolent. However, the day came ; (and a bitter stormy day it was ;) tbe ceremony was concluded ; and the honey-moon seemed to pass away in a fortnight. " About twelve months after our marriage, Heaven (as authors say) blest our loves with a son and — I had almost said heir. Deplorable patrimony ! — heir of his mother's fea- tures — the sacrifice of his father's weakness." Kean could not have touched this last burst. The father — the misera- ble man — parental aifection — agony — remorse — repentance — were expressed in a moment. A tear was hurrying down his vfithered cheek as he dashed it away with his dripping sleeve. " I am a weak old fool," said he, endeavouring to smile ; for there was a volatile gaiety in his disposition, which his sorrows had subdued, but not extinguished. " Yet my boy ! my poor dear Willie ! — I shall never — no, I shall never see him again !" Here he again wept ; and had nature not denied me that luxury, 1 should have wept too, for the sake of company. After a pause, he again proceeded : — " After the birth of my child, came the baptism. I had no conscientious objection to the tenets of the established church of my country ; but I belonged to no religious com- munity. I had never thought of it as an obligation beyond that of custom ; and deferred it from year to year tiU I felt ashamed to ' go forward' on account of my age. My wife was a Cameronian ; and to them, though I knew nothing of their principles, 1 had an aversion ; but for her to hold up the child, while I was in the place, was worse than heathen- ism — was unheard of In the parish. The nearest Episcopal chapel was at Kelso, a distance of ten miles. The child still remained unbaptized. ' It hasna a name yet," said the ignorant meddlers, who had no higher idea of the ordinance. It was a source of much uneasiness to my wife, and gave rise to some family quarrelling. Months suc- ceeded weeks, and eventually the child was carried to the Episcopal church. This choked up aU the slander of the town, and directed it into one channel upon my devoted head. Some said I ' wasna sound," and all agreed I ' was nae better than I should be ;' while the zealous clergyman came to my father, expressing his fears that 'his son was in a bad way.' For this, too, am I indebted to procrastina- tion. I thus became a martyr to supposed opinions, of which I was ignorant ; and such was the unchristian bigotry of my neighbours, that, deeming it sinful to employ one whom they considered little other than a pagan, about five years after my marriage, I was compelled to remove with my family to L on don. " We were at this period what tradesmen term miserably hard up. Having sold off our little stock of furniture, after discharging a few debts which were unavoidably contracted, balance of rather less than two pounds remained ; and upon this, my wife, my child, and myself, were to travel a distance of three hundred and fifty miles. I will not go over the journey ; we performed it on foot in twenty days ; and, including lodging, our daily expense amounted to one ■shilling and eightpence; so that, on entering the metropolis, ill we possessed was five shillings and a few pence. It was ihe dead of winter, and nearly dark, when we were passing down St John Street, Clerkenwcll. I was benumbed — my wife was fainting — and our poor child was blue and speech- less. We entered a public-house near Smithfield, where two pints of warm porter and ginger, with a crust of bread ind cheese, operated as partial restoratives. The noisy scene jf butchers, drovers, and coal-heavers, was new to me. My •bil- hou«p and — Heaven ! let the cause forgive the TALES OF THE BORDEES. €1 act — pawned them foi oiglitecnpence. It mrei our li^es. 1 o7)tained employment, and, for a few weeks, appeared to hare overcome my curse. " I am afraiil I grow tedious ^-ith particulars, Sir ; it is an old man's fault — though I am not old either ; I am scarce fifty-five. After being three ye;irs in London, I was ap- pointed foreman of an extensive estaljlishmont in the Strand. I remained in this situation about four years. It was one of respectability and trust ; d ^mandiiig, hourly, a vigilant and undivided attention. To another, it might have been attend- ed with honour and profit : but, to me, it terminated in dis- grace. Amongst other du ics, I had the payment of the journeymen, and the giving out of the work. They being numerous, and their deinandsfrequent, it would have required a clerk for the proper discharge of that duty alone. I delayed entering at the moment in my books the materials and cash given to each, until they multiplying upon my hands, and begetting a consequent confusion, it became impossible for me to make their entry with certainty or correctness. The workmen were not slow in discovering this, and not a few of the more profligate improved upon it to their advantage. Thus, I frequently found it impossible to make both ends of my account meet; and.inrepeatedinstances, where the week's expenditure exceeded the general average, though satisfied in my own mind of its accuracy, from my inability to state the particulars, in order to conceal my infirmity, I have ac- counted for the overplus from my o^vn pocket. Jlatters went on in this way for a considerable time. You will admit I was rendered feelingly sensible of my error, and I resolved to correct it. But my resolutions were always made of paper ; thev were like a complaisant debtor — full of promises, pray- ing for grace, and dexterously evading performance. Thus, day after day, I deferred the adaption of my new system to a future period. For, Sir, you must be aware there is a pleasure in procrastination, of a natJire the most alluring and destructive ; but it is a pleasure purchased by the sacrifice of judgment; in its nature and results it resembles the happiness of the drunkard ; for, in exact ratio as our spirits are raised above their proper level, in the same proportion, when the ardent effects have evaporated, they sink beneath that level. " I was now too proud to work as a mere journeyman, and I commenced business for myself; but I began without capital, and a gourd of sorrow hung over me, while I stood upon sand. I had some credit; but, as my bills became pay- able, I ever found I had put off, till the very day they became due, the means of liquidating them ; then had I to run and borrow five pounds from one, and five shillings from another, urged by despair, from a hundred quarters. My creditors grew clamorous — my wife upbraided me — I flew to the bottle — to the bottle !" he repeated ; " and my ruin was complete —my family, business, everything, was neglected. Bills of Middlesex were served on me, declarations filed — I surren- dered myself, and was locked up in Whitecross Street. It is a horrid place — the Fleet is a palace to it — the Bench, paradise I But, Sir, 1 will draw my painful story to a close. During my imprisonment, my wife died — died, not by my hands, but from the work of them ! She was laid in a strange grave, and strangers laid her head in the dust, while I lay a prisoner in the city where she was buried. My boy — my poor Willie — who had been always neglected, was left without father and without mother ! — Sir ! Sir ! my boy was left vrithout food I He forsook visiting me in the prison — I heard he had turned the associate of thieves ; and, from that period, five years have passed, and I have obtained no trace of him But it is my doing — my poor Willie !" Ilere the victim of procrastination finished his narrative. [I The storm had passed away, and the sun again shone out. ITie man had interested me, and we left the gardens together. 1 mentioned that I had to go into the city ; he said he had business there also, and asked to accompany ne. I could not fafuBf him- From the door bj which we left the miK^ens ' our route lay by way of Oxford Street. As we proceeded down Ilolbom, the church bell of St Sepulchre's began to toll ; and the crowd, collected round tliu top of Newgate Street, indicated an execution. As we approached the place, the criminal was brought forth. He was a young man about nineteen years of age, and had been found guilty of an aggravated case of housebreaking. As the unhappy beinp turned round to look upon the spectators, my companion gave a convulsive shriek, and, springing from my side exclaimed — " Righteous Heaven ! my Willie ! my murdered Willie!" — He had proceeded but a few paces, when he fell with his face upon the ground. In the wretched criminal he discovered his lost, his only son. The miserable old man was conveyed, in a state of insensibility, to St Bartholomew's Hospital, where I visited him the next day ; he seemed to suffer much, and, in a few hours, he died with a shudder, and the word Procrastination on his tongue. UPS AND DOWNS; OR, DAVID STUART'S ACCOUNT OF HIS PILGRIMAGE. Old David Stuart was the picture of health — a personifi- cation of contentment. AVhen I knew him, his years must have considerably exceeded threescore ; but his good-natured face was as ruddy as health could make it ; his hair, though mingled with grey, was as thick and strong as if he had been but twenty ; his person was still muscular and active ; and, moreover, he yet retained, in all their freshness, the feelings of his youth, and no small portion of the simplicity of his childhood. I loved David, not only because he was a good man, but because there was a great deal of character or originality about him ; and, though his brow was cheerful, the clouds of sorrow had frequently rested upon it. More than once, when seated by his parlour fire, and when he had finished his pipe, and his afternoon tumbler stood on the table beside him, I have heard him give the follo^ving ac- count of the ups and downs — the trials, the joys, and sor- rows — which he had encountered in his worldly pilgrimage ; and, to preserve the interest of the history, I shall give it Lu David's own idiom, and in his own words. " I ne'er was a great traveller," David was wont to begin : " through the length o' Edinburgh, and as far south as New castle, is a' that my legs ken about geography. But I've had a good deal o' crooks and thraws, and ups and downs, in the world, for a' that, lily faither was in the droving line, and lived in the parish o' Coldstream. lie did a good deal o' business, baith about the fairs on the Borders, at Edinburgli market every week, and sometimes at Morpeth. He was a bachelor till he was five-and-forty, and he had a very decent lass keep'd his house, they ca'd Kirsty Simson. Kirstj was a remarkably weel-faur'd woman, and a number o' the farm lads round about used to come and see her, as weel aa trades' chields frae about Coldstream and Birgham — no that she gied them ony encouragement, but that it was her mis- fortune to hae a gude-looking face. So, there was ae night that my faither cam' hame frae Edinburgh, and, according to his custom, he had a drap in his e'e — yet no sac meikle but that he could see a lad or twa hingin' about the house. He was very angry ; and, ' Kirsty,' said he, ' I dinna like thae youngsters to come about the house.' " ' I'm sure. Sir,' said she, ' I dinna encourage them.' •' • Weel, Kirsty,' said he, ' if that's the way, if ye has nae objections, I'll marry ye mysel'.' " ' I dinna see what objections I should hae,' said she, and, without ony mair courtship, in a week or twa they were married ; and, in course o' time, I was bom. I was sent to Bchool when I was about e^ght years auld, but my educatior 53 TALES OF THE BORDERS. ne'er got far'er than the Rule o' Three. Before I was fif- teen, I assisted my faither at the markets, and, in a short time, he could trust me to buy and sell. There was one yery dark night in the month o' January, when I was little mair than seventeen, my faither and me were gaun to Mor- peth, and we were wishing to get forward wi' the beasts as far as Whittingham ; but just as we were about half a mile doun the loanin' frae Glanton, it cam' awa ane o' the dreadfu'est storms that e'er mortal was out in. The snaw, literally, fell in a solid mass, and every now and then the wind cam' roarin' and hovvlin' frae the hills, and the fury o' the drift was terrible. I was driven stupid and half suf- focated. My faither was on a strong mare, and I was on a bit powney,and amang the cattle there was a camstairy three- year-auld bull, that wad neither hup nor drive. We had it tied by the fore leg and the homs ; but, the moment the drift broke ower us, the creature grew perfectly unmanage- able ; forward it wadna gang. My faither had strucken at it, when the mad animal plunged its horns into the side o' the mare, and he fell to the ground. I could just see what had happened, and that was a'. I jumped afF the powney, and ran forward. ' O faither !' says I, ' ye're no hurt, are ye }' He was trying to rise, but before I could reach him — indeed, before I had the words weel out o' my mouth — the animal made a drive at him ! ' O Davy !' he cried, and he ne'er spak mair I We generally carried pistols, and I had presence o' mind to draw ane out o' the breast-pocket o' my big coat, and shoot the animal dead on the spot. I tried to raise my faither in my arms, and dark as it was, I could see his blood upon the snaw — and a dreadfu' sight it was for a son to see ! I couldna see where he had been hurt ; and still, though he groaned but once, I didna think he was dead, and I strove and strove again to lift him upon the back o' the poHiiey, and take him back to Glanton ; but, though I fought wi' my heart like to burst a' the time, I couldna accomplish it. ' Oh, what shall I do ?' said I, and cried and shouted for help — -for the snaw fell sae fast, and the dnit was sae terrible, that I was feared that, even if he werena dead, he wad be smothered and buried up before I could ride to Glanton and back. And, as I eried, our poor dog Rover came couring to my faither's body and licked his hand, and its pitiful howls mingled wi' the shrieks o' the wind. No kennin' what to do, I lifted my faither to the side o' the road, and tried to place him, half sitting Uke, wi' his back to the drift, by the foot o' the hedge. ' Oh, watch there. Rover,' said I, and the poor dog ran yowlin' to his feet, and did as 1 desired it. I sprang upon the back o' the powney, and flew up to the town. vVithin five minutes I was back, and, in a short time, a num- ber o" folk wi' lichts cam' to our assistance. My faither was covered wi' blood, but without the least sign o' life. I thought my heart wad break, and, for a time, my screams were heard aboon the ragin' o' the storm. My faither was c^onveyed up to the inn, and, on being stripped, it was found that the horn o' the animal had entered his b.aok be- low the left shouther ; and when a Doctor frae Alnwick saw the body next day, he said he must have died instantly — and, as I ha-ve told y€, he never spoke, but just cried, ' Davy I' " My feelings were in such a state, that I couldna write mysel', and I got a minister to send a letter to my mother, puir woman, stating what had happened. An acquaintance o' my faither's looked after the cattle, and disposed o' them at Morpeth ; and I, having hired a hearse at Alnwick, got the body o' my faither taen hame. A sorrowfu' harae-gaun t was, je may weel think. Before ever we reached the tionse I heard the shrieks o my puir mither. ' O my Fditherless bairn !' she cried, as I entered the door ; but be- fore she could rise to meet me, she got a glent o' the cof- fin which they were takin' out o' the hearse, and utterin' a sudden scream, her head fell back, and she gacd clean awa. " After my faither's funeral, we foimd that he had died worth only about four LuiicrieJ pounils, when his de'uts wpre paid ; and as I had been bred in the droving line, though I was rather young, 1 just continued it, and my mother and me kept house thegither. " This was the only thing particular that happened to me for the next thirteen years, or till I was thirty. My mother still kept the house, and I had nae thoughts o' marrying : no but that I had gallanted a wee bit wi' the lasses now and then, but it was naething serious, and was only to be neigh- bour Uke. I had ne'er seen ane that I could think o' takin' for better for warse ; and, anither thing, if I had seen ane to please me, I didna think my mither would be comfort- able wi' a young wife in the house. Weel, ye see, as I wa« telling ye, things passed on in this way till I was thirty, when a respectable flesher in Edinburgh, that I did a good deal o' business wi", and that had just got m.irried, says tc me, in the Grassmarket, ae day — ' Davy,' says he, ' ye're no gaun out o' the toun the night — will ye come and tak' tea and supper wi' the wife and me, and a fretnd or twa ?' " ' I dinna care though I do,' says I ; ' but I'm no just in a tea-drinkiu' dress.' " ' Ne'er mind the dress,' says he. So, at the hour ap pointed, I stepped awa ower to Hanover Street, in the New Town, where he lived, and was shewn into a fine car- peted room, wi' a great looking-glass, in a gilt frame, owel the chimley-piece — ye could see yoursel' at full length in't the moment you entered the door. I was confounded at the carpets, and the glass, and a sofa, nae less ; and, thinks I, ' This shews what kind o' bargains ye get frae me.' ITjere were three or four leddies sitting in the room, and 'Mr Stuart, leddies,' said the flesher ; ' Mr Stuart, Mrs So-and- so,' said he again — ' Miss Murray, Mr Stuart.' I was like to drap at the impudence o' the creatur — he handed me about as if I had been a bairn at a dancin' school. ' Your servant, leddies,' said I, and didna ken where to look, when I got a glimpse o' my face in the glass, and saw it was aa red as crimson. But I was mair than ever put about when the tea was brought in, and the creatur says to me, • Mr Stuart, will you assist the leddies ?' ' Confound him thought I, 'has he brought me here to mak' a fule o' me ' I did attempt to hand round the tea and toast ; when, wi' downright confusion, I let a cup fall on Miss Murray's gown. I could have died wi' shame. ' Nev*r mind — never mind. Sir !' said she ; ' there is no harm done ;' and she spoke sae proper and sae kindly, I was in love wi' her very voice. But when I got time to observe her face, it was a perfect picture ; and, through the hale night after, I could do naething but look at, and think o' Miss Murray. ■' ' Man,' says I to the flesher, the next time I saw him, ' wha was yon Miss Murray ?' ' No match for a Grassmar- ket dealer, Davy,' says he. ' I was thinkin' that,' says I ; ' but I wad like to be acquainted wi' her.' ' Ye shall bo that', says he ; and, after that, there w.-is seldom a month passed that I was in Edinburgh but I saw Miss Murray. But as to courtin', that was out o' the question. " A short time after this, a relation o' my mither'», whx had been a merchant in London, deed ; and it was said we were his nearest heirs ; and that, as he had left nae will, if we applied, we would get the property — which was worth about five thousand pounds, ^^"ecl, three or four years passed awa, and we heard something about the lawsuit, but nae- thing about the money. I was vexed for having onything to say to it. I thought it was only wasting a candle to chase a Wiii-o'-the-Wisp. About the time I speak o', my mithei had turned very frail. I saw there was a wastin' awa o' nature, and she wadna be lang beside me. The day before her death, she took my hand, and ' Davy,' says she to me — Davy,' poor body, she repeated — (I think I hear her yet) — ' it wad been a great comfort to me, if I had seen ye settled wi' a decent partner before I deed — but it's no to be." " Weel, as I was saying, my mither deed, and I found I TALES OF THE BORDEIiS. 53 the house very dowie without hor. It wad be ahout three months after lier death — I had been at Wbitsuubaiik ; and wlicn I cam' lianie, the servant hissie put a letter into my hands; and ' Maister,' says she, Hlici-e's a letter — can it be for you, think ye?' for it was directed 'David Stuart, Esquire (nae less) by Coldstream.' So I opened the seal, and to my surprise and astonishment, I found it was frae the man o' business I had employed in London, stating that I had won the law plea, and that I might get the money whene'er I wanted it. I sent for the siller the very next post. Now, ye see, I was sick and tired o' being a bachelor, I had lang wished to be settled in a comfortable matrimonial way — that is, frae e'er I had seen Miss Slurray. But ye see, while I was a drover, I was very little at hamc — indeed, I was waur tli.an an Arawbiau — and had very little peace or comfort either — and I thought it was nae use takin' a wife until something better might cast up. But this wasna the only reason. There wasna a woman on earth that I thought [ could live happy wi' but Miss Murray, and she belanged to a genteel family — whether she had ony siller or no, I declare, as I'm to be judged hereafter, I never did inquire. But I saw plainly it wadna do for a rough country drover to draw up by her elbow, and say — 'Here's a fine day, ma'am,' or, ' Ilae ye ony objections to a walk ? ' or something o' that sort. But it was weel on for five years since I had singled her out; and, though I never said a word anent the subject o' matrimony, yet I had reason to think she had a shrewd guess that my heart louped quicker when she opened her lips than if a regiment had fired their muskets ower my shouther; and I sometimes thought that her een looked as if she wished to s.iy — 'Are ye no gann to ask me, David?' " But still, when I thought she had been brought up a leddy in a kind o' manner, I durstna venture to mint the matter ; but I was fully resolved and determined, shovild I succeed in getting the money I was trying for, to break the business clean aff hand. So, ye see, as soon as I got the siller, what does I do, but sits down and writes her a letter, (and sic a letter!) I tauld her a' my mind as freely as though I had been speaking to you. Weel, ye see, I gaed bang through to Edinburgh at ance, no three days after my letter; and up I goes to the Lawnmarket, where she was living wi' her mither, and raps at the door without ony ceremony. But when I had rapped, I was in a swither whether to staun till they came out or no ; for my heart began to imitate the knocker, or rather to tell me how I ought to have knocked ; for it wasna a loud, solid, drover's knock like mine, but it kept rit-tit-tatting on my breast like the knock o' a hairdresser's 'prentice bringing a bandbox fu' o' curls and ither knick-knackeries, for a leddy to pick and choose on for a fancy-ball ; and my face lowed as though ye were baudin' a candle to it; when out comes the servant, and I stammers out — 'Is your mistress in?' says I. 'Yes, Sir,' says she ; ' walk in.' And in I walked ; but I declare I didna ken whether the floor carried me, or I carried the floor ; and wha should I see but an auld leddy wi' spectacles — the maiden's mistress, sure enough, though no mine, but my mother-in-law that was to be. So she looked at me and I looked at her. She made a low curtsy, and I tried to mak' a bow; while, all the time, ye m.ight hae heard my heart beatin' at the opposite side o' the room. ' Sir,' saj-s she. ' Ma'am,' says I. I wad hae jumped out o' the window, had it no been four stories high ; but, since I've gane this far, I maun say something, thinks I. 'I've taen the liberty o' callin', ma'am,' says I. ' Very happy to see ye. Sir,' says she. Weel, thinks I, I'm glad to hear that, however; but, had it been to save my lite, I didna ken what to say next. So I sat down, and at length I ventured to ask—' Is your daughter, Miss Jean, at hame, ma'am?' s.ays I. 'I wate is she,' quo'.she. 'Jean!' she cried wi' a voice that made the house a' dirl again. ' Comin', mother,' cried my flower o' the forest ; and in she cam', skipping like a perfect fairy. But when she saw mo, she started as if she had seen an apparition, and coloured up to the very e'ebrows. As for me, I trembU'd like an ash leaf, and stepped forward to meet her. I dinna think she was sensible o' me takin' her by the hand; and I was just beginning to say again, 'I've taken the liberty,' when the auld wife had the sense and discretion to leave us to oursel's. I'm sure and certain I never experienced such a relief since I was born. My head was absolutely singing wi' dizziness and love. I made twa or three attempts to say something grand, but I never got half-a-dozen words out ; and, finding it a' nonsense, I threw my arms around her waist, pressed her beatin' breast to mine, and stealin' a hearty kiss, the whole story that I had made such a wark about was ower in a moment. She made a wee bit fuss, and cried, ' Oh fie!' and 'Sir!' or something o' that kind ; but I held her to my breast, declared my intentions manfully ; that I had been dying for her for five years, and now that I was a gentleman, 1 thought I might venture to speak. In fact, I held her in my arms until she next door to said 'Yes!' " Within a week we had a'thing settled. I found out she had nae fortune. Her mother belanged to a kind o' auld family, that, like mony ithers, cam' down the brae wi' Prince Charles, poor fallow ; aiTd they were baith rank Episcopawlians. I found the mither had just sae meikle a-year frae some o' her far-awa' relations ; and, had it no been that they happened to ca' me Stuart, and I tauld her a rigmarole about my grandfaither and Culloden, so that she soon made me out a pedigree, about which I kenned nae mair than the man o' the moon, but keept saying ' yes,' and ' certainly ' to a' she said — I say, but for that, and confound me, if she wadua hae curled up her nose at me and my five thousand pounds into the bargain, though her lassie should hae starved. But Jeanie was a perfect angel. She was about two or three and thirty, wi' light brown hair, hazel een, and a waist as jimp and sma' as j'e ever saw upon a human creature. She dressed maist as plain as a Quakeress, but was a pattern o' neatness. Indeed, a blind man might seen she was a leddy born and bred ; and then for sense — baud at ye there — I wad matched her against the minister and the kirk elders put thegither. But she took that o' her mither — o' whom mair by and by. "As I was saying, she was an Episcopawlian — a down- right, open-day defender o' Archbishop Laud and the bloody Claverhouse ; and she wished to prove down through me the priority and supremacy o' bishops ower Presbyteries: — ^just downright nonsense, ye ken — but there's nae accounting for sooperstition. A great deal depends on how a body's brought up. But what vexed me maist was to think that she wad be gaun to ae place o' public worship on the Sabbath, and me to anither, just like twa strangers; and, maybe, if her minister preached half an hour langer than mine, or mine half an hour langer than hers, or when we had nae inter- mission, then there was the denner spoiled, and the servant no kenned what time to hae it ready ; for the mistress said ane o'clock, and the maister said twa o'clock. Kow, I widna gie tippence for a cauld denner. "But, as I ivas telling ye about the auld wife, she thocht fit to read baith us a bit o' a lecture. " ' Now, bairns,' said she, ' I beseech ye, think weel what ye are about ; for it were better to rue at the very foot o' the altar, than to rue but ance afterwards, and that ance be for ever. I dinna say this to cast a damp upon your joy, nor that I doubt your affection for ane anither; but I say it as ane who has been a wite, and seen a good deal o' the world ; an', oh, bairns ! I say it as a mother ! Slarriage without love is like the sun in January — often clouded, often trembling I through storms, but aye without heat; and its pillow is com- 54 TALES OF THE BORDERS. fortless as a snow-wreatL. But, altliougb love be the prin- ipai thing, remember it is not the oniy thing necessary. Vre ye sure that ye are perfectly acquainted wi' each other's characters and tempers ? Aboon a', are ye sure that ye esteem and respect ane anitber ? Without this, and ye may ibink that ye like each other, but it's no real love. It's no that kind o' liking that's to last through married years, and be like a singing bird in your breasts to the end o' your days. No, J'canie, unless your very souls be, as it were, cemented thegither, unless ye see something in him that ye see in naebody else, and unless he sees something in you that he sees in naebody else, dinna marry still. Passionate lovers dinna aye mak' affectionate husbands. Powder will bleeze fiercely awa in a moment ; but the smotherin' peat retains fire and heat among its very ashes. Remember that, in baith man and woman, what is passion to-day may be disgust the mom. Therefore, think now ; for it will be ower late to think o' my advice hereafter.' " ' Troth, ma'am,' said I, ' and I'm sure I'll be very proud to ca' sic a sensible auld body milher !' -' ' Rather may ye be proud to call my bairn your wife,' said she ; ' for, where a man ceases to be proud o' his wife, upon all occasions, and at all times, or where a wife has to blush for her husband, ye may say fareweel to their happi- ness. However, David,' continued she, 'I dinna doubt but ye will mak' a gnde husbSnd ; for ye're a sensible, and, I really think, a deservin' lad, and, were it nae mair than your name, the name o' Stuart wad be a passport to my heart, 'i'here's but ae thing that I'm feared on — just ae fault that I see in ye — indeed I may say it's the beginning o' a' ithers, and I wad fain hi.e ye promise to mend it ; for it has brought mair misery upon the marriage state than a' the sufferings o' poverty and the afflictions o' death put thegither.' " ' Mercy me, ma'am I' exclaimed I, ' what de ye mean ? Ye've surely been misinformed.' " ' I've observed it mysel', David,' said she, seriously. " ' Goodness, ma'am ! ye confound me !' says I ; ' if its onything that's bad, I'll deny it point blank.' " • Ye mayna think it bad,' says she, again, ' but I fear ye like a dram, and my bairn's happiness demands that I should speak o' it.' " ' A dram !' says I ; 'preserve us ! is there ony ill in a dram. I — that's the last thing that I wad hae thought about.' *' ' Ask the broken-hearted wife,' says she, ' if there be ony ill in a dram — ask the starving family — ask the jailor and the grave-digger — ask the doctor and the minister o' religion — ask where ye see roups o' furniture at the cross, or the auctioneer's flag wavin' frae the window — ask a deathbed — ask eternity, David Stuart, and they wiU tell ye if there be ony ill in a dram. " ' I hope, ma'am, says I, and I was a guid deal nettled ; ' I hope, ma'am, ye dinna tak' me to be a drunkard ? I can dedare freely, that, unless maybe at a time by chance, (and the best o' us vrill mak' a slip now and then,) I never tak' Rboon twa or three glasses at a time. Indeed, three's just my set. I aye say to my cronies, there is nae luck tiU the second tumbler, and nae peace after the fourth. So, ye perceive, there's not the smallest danger o' me.' " ' Ah, but, David,' replied she, ' there is danger. Habits grow stronger, nattire weaker, and resolution offers less and less resistance ; and ye may come to make four, five, or six glasses your set ; and frae that to a bottle — ^your grave — and my bairn a broken-hearted widow.' " ' Really, ma'am,' says I ' ye talked very sensibly before, but ye are awa -wi' the harrows now — quite unreasonable tt'thegither. However, to satisfy ye upon that score, I'll mak' a vow this very moment, that, except' " Mak' nae rash vows,' says she ; ' for a breath muK's them, HJid less than a breath immak's them. But mind that, while ye wad be comfortable wi' your cronies, my bairn wad bt: £rettiu' her lane ; and, thou,e;h she might sae naethint; when ye cam' hame, that wadaa be tlic "^ay to wear bf" love round your neck like a chain o' gold ; but, night iift'S' night, it wad break away link by link, till the whole was lost ; and, if ye didna hate, ye wad soon find ye were Hisa- greeable to each other. Nae true woman vrill condescend tc ■ love ony man lang, wha can find society he prefers to hers I in an alehouse. I dinna mean to say that ye should uever enter a company ; but dinna mak' a practice o't.' " Weel, the wedding morning cam', and I reaUy thccli it was a great blessin' folk hadna to be married ev e. day. My neckcloth wadna tie as it used to tie, and, bu that I wadna swear at onybody on the day o' my m ai riage, I'm sure I wad hae wished some ill wish on tne fingers o' the laundress. She had starched the muslins ! — a circumstance, I am perfectly certain, unheard of in tht memory o' man, and a thing which my mother u?'ei did. It was stiff, crumpled, and clumsy. I vowed it was insupportable. It was within half an hour o' the time o' gaun to the chapeL I had tried a ' rose-knot,' a ' witch- knot,' a ' chaise-driver's knot,' and a ' running-knot,' wi' every kind o' knot that fingers could twist the neckcloth into, but the confounded starch made every ane look waur than anither. Three neckcloths I had rendered tin- wearable, and the fourth I tied in a ' beau-knot' in despair The friU o' my sark-breast wadna lie in the position iB which I wanted it ! For the first time, my very hair rose in rebellion — it wadna lie right ; and I cried — ' The mis- chief tak' the barber !' The only part o' my dress wi' which I was satisfied, was a spotless pair o' nankeen pan- taloons. I had a dog they ca'd Mettle — it was a son o'poor Rover, that I mentioned to ye before. Weel, it had been raining through the night, and Mettle had been out in the street. The instinct o' the poor dumb brute was puzzleil to comprehend the change that had recently taken place id J my appearance and habits, and its curiosity was excited. I ^ was sitting before the looking-glass, and had just finished tying my cravat, when Mettle cam' bouncing into the room ; he looked up in my face inquisitively, and, to unriddle mail o' the matter, placed his unwashed paws upon my unsoiled nankeens. Every particular claw left its ugly impression. It was provoking beyond endurance. 1 raised my hand to strike him, but the poor brute wagged his tail, and I only pushed him down, saj-ing, ' Sorrow tak' ye. Mettle ! do ye see what ye've dune ?' So I had to gang to the kitchen fire and stand before it to dry the damp, dirty foot prints o' the offender. I then found that the waistcoat wadna sit without wrinkles, such as I had ne'er seen before upon a waistcoat o' mine. The coat, too, was insupportably tight below the arms; and, as I turned half round before the glass, 1 saw that it hung loose between the shouthers ! ' As sure as a gun, says I, ' the stupid soul o' a tailor has sent me hame the coa} o' a humph-back in a mistak' !' My hat was fitted on in every possible manner — ower the brow and aff the brow — now straight, now cocked to the right side, and again to the left — but to no purpose ; I couldna place it to look like mysel', or as I wished. But half-past eight chimed frae St Giles's. I had ne'er before spent ten minutes to dress, shaving included, and that morning I had begun at seven ! There was not another moment to spare; 1 let my hat fit as it would, seized my gloves, and rushed down stairs, and up to the Lawnmarket, where I knocked joyfully at the door o' my bonny bride. " When we were about to depart for the chapel, the auld Icddy rose to gie us her blessing, and placed Jeanie's hand within mine. She shed a few quiet tears, (a common cir- cumstance wi' mithers on similar occasions,) and ' Now, Jeanie,' said sbe, ' before ye go, I have just anither word or twa to say to ye* " ' Dearsake, ma'nm !' said I, tor I was out o' a" patience 'we'll do very we.>l wi' what we've heard just now, an.i can Bay onythinj; "e like when we ;ome back." TALES OF THE BORDERS. bb " There was only an elderly gentleman and a young leddy accompanied us to the chapel ; for Jeanie and her mother said that that vras mair genteel than to have a gilravish o' folk at our heels. For my part, I thouf^lit, ag we were to he married, we micht as weel mak' a wedding o't. I, however, thought it prudent to agree to their wish, which I did the mair readily, as I had nae particular acquaintance in Edin- burgh. The only point that I wad not concede was heing conveyed to the chapel in a coach. That ray ploheian hlood, notwithstanding my royal name o' Stuart, could not over- coTne. ' Save us a' I' said I, ' if I wadna rvalk to he mar- ried, what in the three kingdoms wad tempt me to walk ?' " ' Wcel,' said the auld leddy, 'my daughter will be the 6rst o' our family that ever gaed on foot to the altar.' " ' An' I assure ye, JIa'ain,' said I, ' that I would be the first o" my family that ever gaed in ony ither way ; and, in my opinion, to gang on foot, shews a demonstration o' affec- tion andfree-will, whereas gaun in a carriage looks asif there were unwillingness or compulsion in the matter.' So she fied up the controversy. Weel, the four o' us walked awa oun the Lawnraarket and High Street, and turned into a close, by the tap o' the Canongate, where the Episcopawlian chapel was situated. For several days, I had read ower the marriage service in the prayer book, in order to master the time to say • I will,' and other matters. Nevertheless, no sooner did I see the white gown of the clergyman, and feel Jeanie's hand trembling in mine, than he micht as weel hae spoken in GaeUc. I mind something about the ring, and, when the minister was done, I whispered to the best man, ' Is a' ower now ?' • Yes,' said he. ' Heeven be thankit !' thought I. " Weel, ye see, after being married, and as I had been used to an active life a' my days, I had nae skill in gaun about like a gentleman wi' my hands in my pockets, and I was anxious to tak' a farm. But Jeanie didna like the pro- posal, and my mother-in-law wadna hear tell o't ; so, by her advice, I put out the money, and we lived upon the interest. For six years everything gaed straight, and we were just as happy and as comfortable as a family could be. We had three bairns ; the eldest was a daughter, and we ca'ed her Margaret, after her grandmother, who lived wi' us ; the second was a son, and I named him Andrew, after my faither ; and our third, and youngest, we ca'ed Jeanie, after her mo- ther. They were as clever, bonny, and obedient bairns as ye could see, and everybody admired them. There was ane Lucky JIacnaughtan kept a tavern in Edinburgh at the time. A sort o' respectable folk used to frequent the house, and I was in the habit o' gaun at night to smoke my pipe, and hear the news about Bonaparte and the rest o' them ; but it was very seldom that I exceeded three tumblers. Weel, among the customers there was ane that I had got very intimate wi' — as genteel and decent a looking man as ye could see — indeed I took him to be a particular serious and honest man. So there was ae night that I was rather mair than ordinary hearty, and says he to me, ' Mr Stuart,' says he, ' will you lend your name to a bit paper for me ?' ' No I thank ye. Sir,' says I ; ' I never wish to be caution for onybody.' ' It's of no consequence,' said he, and there wa3 no more passed. But, as I was rising to gang hanie, 'Come, tak' anither, Jlr Stuart," said he; 'I'm next the wa' wi' ye — I'll stand treat.' Wi' sair pressing I was pre- vailed upon to sit doun again, and we had anither and anither, till I was perfectly insensible. What took place, or how I got hame, I couldna tell, and the only thing I remem- ber was a head fit to split the next day, and Jeanie very ill- pleased and powty ways. However, I thought nae mair about it, and I was extremely glad I had refused to be bond for the pi-isou who asked me; for, within three months, I learned that Le had broken and absconded wi' a vast o' siller. I was just a diiy or twa after I had heard the intelligence, 1 »»iki telling Jeanie and her mother o' the circumstaDce, and what an escape I had had, when the servant busle shewed a bank clerk into tlie room. 'Tak' a seat, Sir,' said I, for I li.-ul dealings wi' the bank. 'This is a bad business, Mi Stuart, said he. 'What businnss'i' said I, quite astonishcrj. 'Your being security for Mr So-and-so,' said he. 'Me'! cried I, starting up in the middle o' the floor — 'Me! — the scoundrel — I denied him point blankl' ' There is your own signature for a thousand pounds,' said the clerk. ' A thou- sand furiosi' exclaimed I, stamping my foot; 'it's a forgery — an infernal forgery! ' 'Mr Such-an-one is witness to your hand- writing,' said the clerk. I was petrified ; I could hae drawn down the roof o' the house upon my head to bury me! In a moment, a confused recollection o' the proceedings at Lucky Macnaughtan's flashed across my memory, like a flame trom the bottomless pit I There was a look o' witherin' reproach in my mother-in-law's een, and I heard her mutterin' between her teeth — ' I aye said what his three tumblers wad come to.' But my dear Jeanie bore it like a Christian, as she is. She cam' forward to me — an', poor thing, she kissed my cheek, and says she — ' Dinna dis- tress yoursel', David, dear— it canna be helped now — let us pray that this may be a lesson for the future.' I flung my arm round her neck — I couldna speak — but, at last, I said — ' Jeanie, it will be a lesson — and your affection will be a lesson !' Some o' your book-learned folk wad ca' this conduct philosophy in Jeanie ; but I, wha kenned every thought in her heart, was aware that it proceeded from her resignation as a true Christian, and her affection as a duti- ful wife. Wcel, the upshot was, I had robbed mysel' out o' a thousand pounds as simply as ye wad snuff out a candle. You have heard the saying, that sorrow ne'er comes singly • and I am sure, in a' my experience, I have found its truth. At that period, I had twa thousand pounds, bearing six per cent., lying in the hands o' a gentleman o' immense property. Everybody believed him to be as sure as the bank. Scores o' folk had money in his hands. The interest was paid punctually, and I hadna the least suspicion. Weel, 1 was looking ower the papers one morning at breakfast, and I happened to glance at the list o' bankrupts — (a thing I'm no in the habit o' doing) — when, mercy me ! whose name should I see, but the very gentleman's that had my twa thou- sand pounds ! I had the papers in one hand, and a saucer in the other. The saucer and the coffee gaed smash upon the hearth ! I trembled frae head to foot. ' O David ! what's the matter?' cried Jeanie! 'Matter!' cried I; 'matter! I'm ruined ! — we're a' ruined !' But it's o' nae use dwelling ou this. The fallow didna pay eighteenpence to the pound — and there was three thousand gaen out o' my five 1 It was nae use, wi' a young family, to talk o' living on the in- terest o' our money now. " We maun tak' a farm,' says I ; and baith Jeanie and her mother saw there was naething else for it. So I took a farm, which lay partly in the Lam- mermuirs, and partly in the Merse. It took the thick end of eight hundred pounds to stock it. However, we were very comfortable in it — I found mysel' far mair at hame than I had been in Edinburgh; for I had employment for baith mind and hands, and Jeanie very soon made an excellent farmer's wife, Auld granny, too, said she never had been sae happy ; and the bairns were as healthy as the day was lang. We couldna exactly say that we were making what ye may ca' siller ; yet we were losing nothing, and every year laWng by a httle. There was a deepish bum ran near the onstead. We had been about three years in the farm, and our youngest lassie was about nine years auld. It was the summer time ; and she had been paidling in the bum, and sooming feathers and bits o' sticks ; I was looking after something that had gaeD wTang about the thrcshin' machine, when I heard an unco noise get up, and baims screamin'. I looked out, and I saw them runnin' and shoutin' — 'Miss Jeanie! Miss .Jeanie T I rushed out to the barn-yard. ' What is't, baims ?' cried F 'Miss Jeanie! — Miss Jeanie!' said they, pointing to the 56 TALES OF THE BOEDEES. bum. I flew as fast as my feet could carry me. The bum, after a spate on the hills, often cam' awa in a moment wi' a fury that naething could resist. The flood had come awa upon my bairn — and there, as I ran, did I see her bonny yellow hair whirled round and round, sinking out o' my sight and carried awa doun wi' the stream. There was a linn about thirty yards frae where I saw her, and oh ! how I rushed to snatch a grip o' her before she was carried ower the rocks 1 But it was in Tain — a moment sooner and I might ha'e saved her — but she was hurled ower the preci- pice when I was within an arm's length, and making a grasp at her bit frock I My poor little Jeanie was baith felled and drowned. I plunged into the wheel below the linn, and got her out in my arms. I ran wi' her to the house, and I laid my drowned bairn on her mother's knee. Every- thing that could be done was done, and a doctor was brought frae Dunse ; but the spark o' life was out o' my bit Jeanie. I felt the bereavement very bitterly ; and for many a day, when Margaret and Andrew sat down at the table by our sides, my heart filled ; for, as I was helpin' their plates, I wad put out my hand again to help anither, but there was nae ither left to help. But Jeanie took our bairn's death far sairer to heart than ever I did. For several years she never was hersel' again, and just seemed dwinin' awa. Sea-bathing was strongly recommended ; and as she had a friend in Portobello, I got her to gang there for a week or twa during summer. Our daughter, Margaret, was now about eighteen, and her brother, Andrew, about fifteen, and as I thought it would do them good, I allowed them to gang wi' their mither to the bathing. They were awa for about a month, and I firmly believe that Jeanie was a great deal the better o't. But it was a dear bathing to me, on mony accounts, for a' that. Margaret was an altered lassie a'thegither. She used to be as blithe as a lark in May, and now there was nae gettin' her to do onything ; but she sat couring and unhappy, andseighin' every handel-a-while, as though she were miserable. It was past my comprehen- sion, and her mother could assign nae particular reason for it. As for Andrew, he did naething but yammer, yammer, fiae morn till night, about the sea; or sail boats, rigged wi' thread and paper sails, in the burn. AVhen he was at the bathing he had been doun about Leith, and had seen the ships, and naething wad serve him but he would be a sailor. Night and day did he torment my life out to set him to sea. But I wadna hear tell o't — his mother was perfectly wild against it, and poor auld granny was neither to haud nor to bind. AVe had suffered enough frae the burn at our door, without trusting our only son upon the wide ocean. How- ever, all we could say had nae effect ; the craik was never out o' his head — and it was still — ' I will be a sailor.' Ae night he didna come in as usual for his four-hours, and supper-time cam', and we sent a' round about to seek him, but naebody had heard o' him. We were in unco ■ distress, and it struck me at. once that he had run to sea. I saddled my horse that very night and set out for Leith, but could get nae trace o' him. This was a terrible trial to us, and ye may think what it was when 1 tell ye it was mair than a twelvemonth before we heard tell o' him ; and the first accounts we had was a letter by his ain hand, written frae Bengal. We had had a cart down at Dunse for some bits o' things, and the lad brouglit the letter in his pocket ; and weel do I mind how Jeanie cam' fleein' -ni' it open in her hand across the fields to where I was looking after some workers thinin' turnips, crying — ' David I David — here's a letter frae Andrew 1' 'Read it! read it!' cried I — for my een were blind wi' joy. But Andrew's rinnin' awa wasna the only trial that we had to boar up against at this time. As I was tellin' ye, there was an unco change ower Marj^aret (ince she had come frae the bathin' ; and a while after a young lad, that her mother said they had met wi' at Porto- 'beUo, began to come about the house. He was the son o' a merchant in Edinbtirgh, and pretended that he had come to learn to be a farmer wi' a neighbour o' ours. He was a wild, thoughtless, foppish-looking lad, and I didna like him ; but Margaret, silly thing, was clean daft about him. Late and early I found him about the house, and I tauld him I couldna allow him, nor ony person, to be withia my doors at any such hours. Weel, this kind o' wark was carried on for mair than a year; and a' that I could say or do, Margaret and him were never separate ; tUl at last he drapped aff comin' to the house, and our daughter did naething but seigh and greet. I found that, after bringing her to the point o' marriage, he either wadna, or diu-stna, fulfil his promise, unless I woidd pay into his loof a thou- sand poimds as her portion. I could afford my daughter nae sic sum, and especially no to be thrown awa on the hke o' him. But Jeanie cam' to me wi' the tears on her cheeks, and 'O David! ' says she, 'there's naething for it but partin' wi' a thousand pounds on the ae hand, or our bairn's death — and her — shame! on the ither!' Oh! if a knife had been driven through my heart, it couldna pierced it like the word shame! As a faither, what could I do? I paid him the money, and they were married. '' It's o' nae use teUin' ye how I gaed back in the farm. In the year sixteen my crops warna worth takin' aiF the ground, and I had twa score o' sheep smothered the sau-e winter. I fell behint wi' my rent ; and household furnitur ;, farm-stock, and everything I had, were to be sold off. The day before the sale, wi' naething but a bit bundle carrying in my hand, I took Jeanie on my ae arm, and her pair auld mither on the other, and wi' a sad and sorrowfu' heart we gaed out o' the door o' the hame where our bairns had been brought up, and a sheriff's officer sleeked it behint us. Weel, we gaed to Coldstream, and we took a bit room there, and furnished it wi' a few things that a friend bought back for us at our sale. We were very sair pinched. Margaret's gudeman ne'er looked near us, nor rendered us the least assistance, and she hadna it in her power. There was nae ither alternative that I could see ; and I was just gaun to apply for labouring wark, when we got a letter frae Andrew, enclosing a fifty pound bank note. Mony a tear did Jeanie and me shed ower that letter. He informed us that he had been appointed mate o' an East Indiaman, and begged that we would keep ourselves easy, for, while he had a sixpence, his faither and mither should hae the half o't, Margaret's husband very soon squandered away the money he had got frae me, as weel as the property he had got frae his faither ; and to escape the jail, he ran off and left his wife and family. They cam' to stop wi' me ; and for five j-ears we heard naething o' him. We had begun a shop in the spirit and grocery line, and really we were remarkably fortunate. It was about six years after I had begun business, ae night, just after the shop was shut, Jeanie, and her mother, wha was then about ninety, and Margaret and her bairns, and mj-sel', were a' sittin' round the fire, when a rap cam' to the door — ane o' the bairns ran and opened it, and twa gentlemen cam' in. Margaret gied a shriek, and ane o' them flung liimsel' at her feet. 'Mother! — faither!' — said the other, ' do ye no ken me ? ' It was our son Andrew, and Mar- garet's gudeman ! I jamp up, and Jeanie jamp up ; auld granny raise totterin' to her feet, and the bairns screamed, puir things. I got haud o' Andrew, and his mother got haud o' him, and we a' grat wi' joy. It was such a night o happiness as I had never konuod before. Andrew had been made a ship captain. Margaret's husband had repented o' a' his follies, and was in a good w.ay o' doing in India ; and everything has gane right and prospered wi' our whole familj' frae that day to this." I W I L S O N'S flJt'iiJtortcal, arraat'tt'onarg, anti Kmasmaltt)? TALES OF THE BORDERS, AND OF SCOTLAND. THE ADOPTED SON. A TALE OF THE TIMES OF THE COVENANTERS. ' Oh, for the sword of Gideon, to rid the land of tyrants, to bring do>vn the pride of apostates, and to smite the un- godly with contusion !" muttered John Brydone to himself, as he went into the fields in the September of 164.5, and beheld that the greater part of a crop of oats, which had been cut down a few days before, was carried off. John was the proprietor of about sixty acres on the south bank of the Ettrick, a little above its junction with the Tweed. At the period we speak of, the talented and ambitious Marquis of Montrose, who had long been an apostate to the cause of the Covenant — and not only an apostate, but its most power- ful enemy — having, as he thought, completely crushed its adherents in Scotland, in the pride of his heart led his followers towards England, to support the tottering cause of Charles in the south, and was now with his cavalry quartered at Selkirk, while his infantry were encamped at Fhiliphaugh, on the opposite side of the river. Every reader has heard of Melrose Abbey — which is still venerated in its decay, majestic in its ruins — and they have read, too, of the abode of the northern wizard, who shed the halo of his genius over the surrounding scenery. But many have heard of Melrose, of Scott, and of Abbotsford, to whom the existence of Fhiliphaugh is unknown. It, however, is one of those places where our forefathers laid the foundation of our freedom with the bones of its enemies, and cemented it with their own blood. If the stranger who visits Melrose and Abbotsford pursue his journey a few mUes farther, he may imagine that he is still following the source of the Tweed, until he arrive at Selkirk, when he finds that for some miles he has been upon the banks of the Ettrick, and that the Tweed is lost among the wooded hOls to the north. Immediately below Selkirk, and where the forked river forms a sort of island, on the opposite side of the stream, he will see a spacious haugh, surrounded by wooded hills, and forming, if we may so speak, an amphitheatre bounded by the Ettrick, between the Yarrow and the Tweed. Such is Fhiliphaugh ; where the arms of the Covenant tri- umphed, and where thesword ofMontrose was blunted forever. Now, the sun had not yet risen, and a thick, dark mist covered the face of the earth, when, as we have said, John Brydone went out into his fields, and found that a quantity of his oats had been carried away. He doubted not but they had been taken for the use of Montrose's cavalry; and it was not for the loss of his substance that he grieved, and that his spirit was wroth, but because it was taken to nssist the enemies of his country and the persecutors of the truth; for than John Brydone, humble as he was, there was not a more dauntless or a more determined supporter of the Covenant in all Scotland. While he yet stood by the side of his field, and, from the thickness of the morning, was unable to discern objects at a few yards distance, a party of horsemen rode up to where he stood. " Countryman," said 8. Vol. I. one who appeared to be their leader, " can you inform us where the army of Montrose is encamped i"" John, taking them to be a party of the Royalists, sullenly replied — " There's mony ane asks the road they ken," and was proceeding into the field. " Answer me !" demanded the horseman angrily, and raising a pistol in his hand — " Sir David I^esly commands " Sir David Lesly !" cried John — " the champion of the truth ! — the defender of the good cause ! It ye be Sir David Lesly, as I trow ye be, get yer troops in readiness, and, before the mist vanish on the river, I will deliver the host o' the Fhilistines into your hand." " See that ye play not the traitor," said Lesly, " or the nearest tree shall be unto thee as the gallows was to Haman which he prepared for Mordecai." " Do even so to me, and more also," replied .John, " if ye find me false. But think ye that I look as though I bore the mark of the beast upon my forehead?" he continued, taking off his Lowland bonnet, and gazing General Lesly fidl in the face. " I win trust you,' said the General ; and, as he spoke, the van of his array appeared in sight. John having described the situation of the enemy to Sir David, acted as their guide until they came to the Shaw Bum, when the General called a halt. Each man having partaken of a hurried repast, by order of Sir David, the word was given along the line that they should return thanks for being conducted to the place where the enemy of the Kirk and his army slept in imaginary security. The preachers at the head of the difierent divisions of the army gave out a psalm, and the entire host of the Covenanters, uncovering their heads, joined at the same moment in thanksgiving and praise. John Brydone was not a man of tears, but, as he joined in the psalm, they rolled down his checks, for his heart felt, while his tongue uttered praise, that a day of deliverance for the people of Scotland was at hand. The psalm being concluded, each preacher offered up a short but earnest prayer ; and each man, grasping his weapon, was ready to lay down his Ufe for his religion and his liberty. John Brydone, with his bonnet in hand, approaching Sir David, said — " Now, sir, I that ken the ground, and the situation o' the enemy, would advise ye, as a man who has seen some service mysel, to halve your men ; let the one party proceed by the river to attack them on the one side, and the other go round the hills to cut off theii retreat."* " Ye speak skilfully," said Sir David, and he gare orders as .John Brydone had advised. The Marquis of Blontrose had been disappointed in rein- forcements from his sovereign. Of two parties which had been sent to assist him in his raid into England, one had been routed in Y'orkshire, and the other defeated on Carlisle ' •■ But halve your men in eqnal psrti, Your purpose to fulfil; Let ae half keep the water-side. The rest gae round the hill.'* Battle of Fhiliphaugh — Bcrd^r Rallad. 58 TALES OF THE BORDERS, sands, ana only a few indiviuuals fwjm both parties joined nim at Selkirk. A great part of his Highlanders had re- turned home to enjoy their plunder ; but his army was still tormidable, and he imagined that he had Scotland at his feet, and that he had nothing to fear from anything the Covenanters could bring against him. He had been writ- ing despatches throughout the night ; and he was sitting in the best house in Selkirk, penning a letter to his sovereign, when he was startled by the sounds of cannon and of mus- ketry. He rushed to the street. The inhabitants were hurrying from their houses — many of his cavalry were mingling half-dressed, with the crowd. " To horse ! — to horse !" shouted Montrose. His command was promptly obeyed ; and, in a few minutes, at the head of his cavalry, he rushed down the street leading to tiie river towards Philiphaugh. The mist was breaking away, and he beheld his army fleeing in every direction. The Covenanters had burst upon them as a thunderbolt. A thousand of his best troops lay dead upon the field.* He endeavoured to rally them, but in vain ; and, cutting his way through the Cove- nanters, he fled at his utmost speed, and halted not until he had arrived within a short distance of where the delightful watering town of Innerleithen now stands, when he sought a temporary resting-place in the house of Lord Traquair. John Brydone, having been furnished with a sword, had not been idle during the engagement ; but, as he had fought upon foot, and the greater part of Lesly's army were cavalry, he had not joined in the pursuit ; and, when the battle was ever, he conceived it to be as much his duty to act the part of the Samaritan, as it had been to perform that of a soldier. He was busied, therefore, on the field in administering, as he could, to the wounded ; and whether they were Cavalier or Covenanter, it was all one to John ; for he was not one who cou d trample on a fallen foe, and in their hour of need he considered all nien as brothers. He was passing within aliout twenty yards of a tent upon the Haugh, which had a superior appearance to the others — it was larger, and the cloth which covered it was of a finer quality ; when his at- tention was arrested by a sound unlike all that belonged to a battle-field — the wailing and the cries of an infant ! He looked around, and near him lay the dead body of a lady, and on her breast, locked in her cold arms, a child of a few months old was struggling. He ran towards them — he perceived that the lady was dead — he took the child in his arms — he held it to his bosom — he kissed its cheek — " Puir thing ! — puir thing !" said John ; " the innocent hae been left to perish amang the unrighteous." He was bearing away the child, patting its cheek, and caressing it as he went, and forgetting the soldier in the nurse, when he said u:.to himself — " Puir innocent ! — an', belike yer wr.ing. headed faither is fleeing for his life, an' thinking aboot ye an' yer mother as he flees ! Weel, ye may be claimed some day, an' I maun do a' in my power to gie an account o' ve." So, John turned back towards the lifeless body of the child's mother; and he perceived that she wore a costly ring upon lier finger, and bracelets on her arms ; she also held a small parcel, ressnibling a book, in her hands, as though she had (led with it, without being able to conceal it, and almost at the door of her tent she had fallen with her child in her arms, and her treasure in her hand. John stooped upon the ground, and he took the ring from her finger, and the brace- lets from her arms ; he took also the packet from her hands, and in it he found other jewels, and a purse of gold pieces. " These may find thee a faither, puir thing," said he ; " or • Sir Walter Scott says that " the number of slain in the field did not exceed three or four hundred." All the authorities I have seen mate the number at a thousand. He also accuses Lesly of abusing his victory by sl.iughtering many of his prisoners in cold blood. Now, it Is true that a hundred of the Irish adventurers were shot ; but this was in pursuance of an act of both Parliaments, and not from any private revenge on "■" part of General Lesly. if they do not, they may befriend thee when Johc Brydone cannot." He carried home the child to his o^^-n house, and his wife had at that time an infant daughter at her breast, and she took the foundling from her husband's arms, and became unto it as a mother, nursing it ^dth her own child. But John told not his wife of the purse, nor the ring, nor the rich jewels. The child had been in their keeping for several weeks, but no one appeared to claim him. " The baim may hae been baptized," said John ; " but it mid be after the fashion o' the sons o' Belial ; but he is a brand plucked from the burning — he is my bairn noo, and I shall be unto him as a faither — I'll tak upon me the vows — and, as though he he were flesh o' my ain flash, I will fulfil them." So the child was baptized ; and, in consequence of his having been found on Philiphaugh, and, of the victory mere gained, he was called Philip ; and, as John had adopted him as his son, he bore also the dame of Brydone. It is unnecessary for us to follow the foundling through his rears of boyhood. John had two children — a son named Daniel, and j\lary, who was nursed at her mother's breast with the orphan Philip. As the boy grew up, he called his protectors by the name of father and mother ; but he knew they were not such, for John had shewn him the spot upon the Haugh where he had found him wailing on the bosom of his dead mother. Frequently, too, when he quarrelled with his play- fellows, they would call him the "Philiphaugh foundling," and " the cavalier's brat ;" and on such occasions Marv was wont to take his part, and, weeping, say " he was her bro- ther." As he grew up, however, it grieved his protector to observe, that he manifested but little of the piety, and less of the sedateness of his own children. " ^^'^lat is bom i' the bane, isna easily rooted oot o' the flesh," said John ; and in secret he prayed and nept that his adopted son might be brought to a knowledge of the truth. The days of the Commonwealth had come, and John and his son Daniel rejoiced in the triumphs of the Parliamentary armies, and the success of its fleets ; but, while they spoke, Philip would mutter between his teeth — "It is the triumph of murderers !" He believed that but for the ascendency of the Common- wealth, and he might have obtained some tidings of his family ; and this led him to hate a cause which the activity of his spirit might have tempted him to embrace. Mary Brydone had always been dear to him ; and, as he grew towards manhood, he gazed on her beautiful features with delight ; but it was not the calm delight of a brother contemplating the fair face of a sister; for Philip's heart glowed as he gazed, and the blush gathered on his cheek. One summer evening, they were returning from the fields together, the sun was sinking in the west, the Ettrick mur- mured along by their side, and the plaintive voice of the wild-dove was heard from the copse-wood which covered the hills. " Why are you so sad, brother Philip ?" said JIary , " would you hide anything from your own sister?" ■ " Do not call me brother, Mary," said he earnestly — " do 1 not call me brother.'" " Who would call you brother, Philip, if I did not?" re. turned she affectionately. " Let Daniel call me brother," said he, eagerly ; " but not you — not you I" She burst into tears. "When did I ofl'end you, Philip," she added, " that I may not call you brother .''" " Never, Slary ! — never !" he e.'cclaimed ; " call me Philip — 1/our Philip ! — anything but brother I" He took her hand within his — he pressed it to his bosom. " Mary," he added, " I have neither father, mother, brother, nor kindred I am alone in the world — let there be something that I can call mine — something that will love me iu return ! Do yiiu im derstand me, IMary.?" / _ TALES OF THE BOEDEES. 59 " You are cruci, 1 Jiilip," said she, sobbing as she spoke ; " you know I love you — 1 have always loved you !" " Vps ! as you love Daniel — as you love your father ; but not as" " You love IMr Duncan," Le would have said ; but his heart upbraided him for the suspicion, and he was silent. It is here necessary to inform the reader that Mr Duncan was a preacher of the Covenant, and John Brydone revered him much. He was much older than Wary, but his heart cleaved to lier, and he had asked lier father's consent to become his son-in-law. John, though a stern man, was not one who would force the inclination of his daughter ; but Mr Duncan was, as he expressed it, " one of the faithful in Israel," and his proposal was pleasing to him. IMarv, however, regarded the preacher with awe, but not with aflection. Mary felt that she understood Philip — that she loved him, and not as a brother. She hid her face upon his shoulder, and her hand returned the pressure of his. They entered the house together, and her father perceived that his daughter's face was troubled. The manner of both was changed. He was a shrewd man as well as a stern man, and he also suspected the cause. " Philip," said he calmly, " for twenty years hae I pro- tected ye an' watched owre ye wi' a faither's care, an' I fear that, in return for my care, ye hae brought sorrow into the bosom o' my family, an' instilled disobedience into the flesh o' my ain flesh. But, though ye hae cleaved — as it maun hae been inherent in your bluid — after the principles o' the sons o' this warld, yet, as I ne'er found ye guiltv o' a falsehood, an' as I believe ye incapable o' ane, tell me truly, why is yer countenance, an that o' Mary, changed — and why are ye baith troubled to look me straight in the face ? Answer me — hae ye taught her to forget that she is yer sister ?" " Yes !" answered Philip ; " and can it oflfend the man who saved me, who has watched over me, and sheltered me from infancy till now, that I should wish to be his son in more than in name ?" " It does ort'end me, Philip," said the Covenanter ; " even unto death it offends me ! I hae consented that my doch- ter shall gie her hand to a guid an' a godly man, who will look after her weelfare baith here and hereafter. And ye kenned this — she kenned it, and she didna refuse ; but ye hae come like the son o' darkness, an' sawn tares amang the wheat." " Father," said Philip, " if vou will still allow me to call you by that name — foundling though I am — unknown as I aih — in what am I worse than him to whom you would sac- rifice your daughter's happiness .''" " Sacrifice her happiness !" interrupted the old man ; " hoo daur ye speak o' happiness, wha kens nae meanin' for the word but the vain pleasures o' this sinfu' warld ! Think ye that, as a faither, an' as ane that has my offspring to answer for, that I daur sacrifice the eternal happiness o' my bairn, for the gratification o' a temporary feelin' whicli ve encourage the day and may extinguish the morn. Na, sir ; they wha wad ken what true happiness is, maun first learn to crucify human passions. Mary," added he, sternly, turning to his daughter, " repeat the fifth command- ment." She had been weeping before, and she now wept aloud. " Repeat it !" replied her father yet more sternly. " Honour thy father and thy mother," added she, sobbing as she spoke. " See, then, bairn," rejoined her father, " that ye remem- lier that commandment on yer heart, as weel as on yer tongue. Remember, too, that o' a' the commands, it's the only ane to which a promise is attached ; and, noo, mark what 1 say, an', as ye wadna disobey me, see, at yer peril, that ye ne'er permit this young man to speak to ye again, save oruv as a brither " " Sir," said Philip, " we have giown up together like twin tendrils on the same vine, and can ve wonder that our hearts have become entwined round each other, or that they can tear asunder because ye command it ! Or, could 1 Ioo'k on the face of an angel" " Out on ye, blas[iliemcr !" interrupted the Covenanter — " wad ye ajiply siccan epithets to a bairn o' mine? Once for all, hear me, Philip ; there are Ijut twa ways o't, and ye can tak yer choice. It's tlie first time I hae spoken to 5'e rouglily, but it isna tlie first time my spirit has mourned owre ye. I hae tried to lead ye in the right path; ye hae had baith precept and example afore ye ; but the leaven o this warld — the leaven o' the persecutors o' the Kirk and the Covenant — «'&s in yer very bluid ; an' I believe, if op por- tunity had offered, ye wad hae drawn yer sword in the un- holy cause. A' that I could say, an' a' that I could do, reli- gion has ne'er had ony place in yer heart ; but ye h.'o yearned aboot yer faither, and ye hae mourned aboot yer mother — an' that was natural aneugh — but, oh ! ye hae also desired to cling to the cauld formality o' Episcopacy, as th ev nae doot did : an' should ye e'er discover that yer parents hae been Papists, I believe that ye wad become ane too ! An' aften, when the conversation turned upon the apostate IMontrose, or the gallant Lesly, I hae seen ye manifest the spirit an' the very look o' a persecutor. Were I to gie up my dochter to such a man, 1 should be worse than the hea- then wha sacrifice their offspring to the abomination o' idols. Noo, Philip, as I hae tauld ye, there are but twa ways o't. Either this very hour gie me yer solemn promise that ve ^viII think o' Mary as to be yer wife nae mair, or, wi' the risin' o' to morrow's sun, leave this house for ever !" " Sir," eaid Philip bitterly, " your last command I can obey, though it would be with a sad heart — though it would be in despair ! — your first I cannot — I will not !" " You must — you shall .'" replied the Covenanter. " Never !" answered Philip. " Then," replied the old man, " leave the roof that haa sheltered ye frae yer cradle !" " I will !" said Philip, and the tears ran down his cheeks. He walked towards Mary, and, with a faltering voice, sfdd — " Farewell, Mary ! — Farewell ! I did not expect this ; but do not forget me — do not give your hand to another — and we shall meet again !" " You shall not !" interrupted the inexorable old man. Mary implored her father, for her sake, and for the sake of her departed mother, who had loved Philip as her own son, that he would not drive him from the house, and Dan- iel, too, entreated; but their supplications were vain. " Farewell, then !" said Philip ; " and, though I depart in misery, let it not be with thy curse, but let the blessing ol him who has been to me a father until now, go with me." " The blessin' o' Heaven be wi' ye and around ye, Philip !" groaned the Covenanter, struggling to conceal a tear : ' but, if ye wiU follow the dictates o' yer rebellious heart and leave us, tak wi' ye yer property." " My property !" repeated Phihp. " Yer property," returned the old man. " Twenty year: has it lain in that drawer, an' during that time eyes hae not seen it, nor fingers touched it. It will assist ye noo ; an', when ye enter the warld, mav throw some light upon yer parentage." He went to a small drawer, ana, unlocking it, he took out the jewels, the bracelet, the ring, and the purse of gold, and, placing them in Philip's hands, exclaimed — " Fai-eweel ! — fareweel ! — but it maun be !" and he turned away his head. " O Jlary !" cried Philip, " keep — keep this in remem- brance of me," as he attempted to place the ring in her hand. " Awa, sir!" exclaimed the old man, vehemntly, " wad ye bribe my bairn into disobedience, by the ornaments of folly an' iniquity ! Awa, ye son o' Belial, an' provoke me not to wrath !" 60 TALES OF THE BOEDEES. ITiiHp groaned, Lc dashed Lis hana upon nis brow, and rushed from the house. Mary wept long and bitterly, and Daniel walked to and fro across the room, mourning for one whom he loved as a brother. The old man went out into the fields to conceal the agony of his spirit ; and, when he had wandered for awhile, he communed with himself, saying, " 1 hae dune foolishly, an' an ungodly action hae I perfoniitxl tliis tiicht ; I hae driven oot a young man upon a wicked warld, vd' a' his sins an' his follies on his head ; an', if evil come upon him, or he plunge into the paths o' ^vickedness, liis bluid an' his guilt will be laid at my hands ! Puir Philip !" he added ; " after a', hehad a kind heart !" And the stem old man drew the sleeve of his coat across his eyes. In this fi-ame of mind he returned to the house. " Has Philip not come back ?" said he, as he entered. His son shook his head sorro^vfully, and Mary sobbed more bitterly. '* Rin ye awa doun to Jlehose, Daniel," said he, " an' I'll awa up to Selkirk, an' inquire for him, an' bring him back. Yer faither has allowed passion to get the better o' him, an' to owercome baith the man an' the Christian." " Run, Daniel, run !" cried Mary eagerly And the old man and his son went out in search of him. Their inquiries were fruitless. Daj-3, weeks, and months rolled on, but nothing more was heard of poor Philip. Mary refused to be comforted; and the exhortations, the kindness, and the tenderness shewn towards her by the Rev. Mr Duncan, if not hateful, were disagreeable. Dark thoughts, too, had taken possession of her father's mind, and he frequently sank into melancholy; for the thought haunted him that his adopted son, on being driven from his house, had laid violent hands upon his own life; and this idea embittered every day of his existence. More than ten years had passed since Philip had left the nouse of John Brydone. 'The Commonwealth was at an end, and the second Charles had been recalled ; but exile had not taught him wisdom, nor the fate of his father discretion. He madly attempted to be the lord and ruler of the people's conscience, as well as King of Britain. He was a libertine with some virtues — a bigot without religion. In the pride, •)r rather folly of his heart, he attempted to force Prelacy upon the people of Scotland ; and he let his blood-hounds lioose, to hunt the followers of the Covenant from hill to hill, to murder them on their own hearths, and, with the blood of his victims, to blot out the word conscience fi'om the voca- bulary of Scotchmen. The Covenanters sought their God in the desert and on the mountains which he had reared; they worshipped him in the temples which his own hands had framed ; and there the persecutor sought them, the destroyer found them, and the sword of die tyrant was bathed in the blood of the worshipper ! Even the family altar was profaned; and, to raise the voice of prayer and praise in the cottage to the King of kings, was held to be as treason against him who professed to represent him on earth. \t this period, too, Graham of Claverhouse — whom some have painted as an angel, but whose actions were worthy of ;i fiend — at the head of his troopers, who were called by the profane, the ruling elders of Ike kirk, was carrjang death and cold-blooded cruelty throughout the land. Now, it was on a winter night in the year 16775 a party of troopers were passing near the house of old John Brydone, and he was known to them not only as being one who was a defender of the Covenant, but also as one who harboured the preachers, and whose house was regarded as a conventicle. " Let us rouse the old psalm-singing heretic who lives here, from his knees," said one of the troopers. " Ay, let us stir him up," said the sergeant, who haci the command of the party ; " he is an old offender, and I don't see we can make a better niglit''^ work than drag him along, bag and baggage, to the Captain. I Lave heard as how it was he that betrayed our commander's kinsman, the gallant Montrose." « hiarL! Iiarlc! — softly! softly!" said another, "let ns dismount — hear how the nasal drawl of the conventicle moans through the air! My horse pricks his ears at the sound already. We shall catch them in the act." Eight of the party dismounted, and, hai-ing given their horses in charge to four of their comrades, who remained behind, walked on tiptoe to the door of the cottage. Thev heard the words given, and sung — " When cniel men against us roue To make ofuj their prey!" '■ NVhy, they are singing treason " said one of the troopers, " What more do we need.'" The sergeant placed his forefinger on his lips, and. for about ten minutes, they continued to listen. The song of praise ceased, and a person commenced to read a chapter. They heard him also expound to his hearers as he read. " It is enough!" said the sergeant; and, placing their shoulders against the door, it was burst open. " You are our prisoners !" exclaimed the troopers, each man grasping a sword in his right hand, and a pistol in the left. " It is the will of Heaven !" said the Rev. Jlr Duncan ; for it was him who had been reading and expounding the Scriptures; " but, if ye stretch forth your hands against ;l hair o' our heads. He, without whom a sparrow cannot fall to the ground, shall remember it against ye at the great day o' reckoning, when the trooper will be stripped of his armour and his right hand shall be a mtness against him !" The soldiers burst into a laugh of derision. " No more of your homilj', reverend oracle," said the sergeant ; " I have an excellent recipe for short sermons here; utter another word, and you shall have it !" The troopers laughed again, and the sergeant, as he spoke, held his pistol in the face of the preacher. Besides the clergjTnan there were in the room old John Brydone, his son Daniel, and Mary. " Well, old greybeard," said the sergeant, addressing John, " you have been reported as a dangerous and disaffected Presbyterian knave, as we find j-ou to be ; you are also accused of being a harbourer and an accomplice of the preachers of sedition ; and, lo ! we have found that also youi house is used as a conventicle. We have caught you in the act, and we shall take every soul of you as evidence against yourselves. So come along, old boy — I should only be doing my duty by blowing your brains against the wall ; but that is a ceremony which our commander may wsh to see per- formed in his own presence !" " Su%" said John, " I neither fear ye nor your armed men. Tak me to the bluidy Claverhouse, if you will, and at the day o' judgment it shall he said — ' Let the murderers o' John Brydone stand forth!'" " Let us dispatch them at once," said one of the troopers. " Nay," said the sergeant ; " bind them together, and drive them before us to the Captain : I don't Imow but h e may wish to do justice to them with his own hand." '• The tender mercies of the wicked are cruel," groaned Jlr Duncan. Mary wrung her hands — " Oh, spare my fatherV' she cried. " Wheesht, Mary !" s;iid the old man; " as soon wad a camel pass through the eye o' a needle, as ye wad find com- passion in the hands o' these men !" " Bind the girl and the preacher together," said the ser- geant. " Nay, by j-our leave, sergeant," interrupted one of the troopers, " I would'nt be the man to lift a hand against a pretty girl like that, if j'ou would give me a regiment for it." " Ay, ay, IMacdonald," replied the sergeant — "this comes of your serving under that canting fellow. Lieutenant Mow- iiray — he has no love for the service; and confound me if 1 don't believe he is half a Roundhead in his heart. Tie the hands of the girl I commaud you." TALES OF THE BORDERS. 61 " I will not !" rptunud Miicdonalii ; '• and liang me if any one else sliall !" — And, with hia SAvord in his hand, ho jilaced himself Ijt'twccu Rlaiy and his comrades. " If you do nut bind lier hands, I shall cause others to bind yours," said the sorgi-ant. " They may try that wiio dare !" returned the soidier, >vrio was the most powerful man of the jiarty ; " but what I've said I'll stand to." " You shall answer for this to-morrow," said the serjjeant, sullenly, who feared to provoke a quarrel with the trooper. '• I will answer it," rei)lied the other. John Brydone, his son Daniel, and the Rev. Mr Duncan, were bound together with strong eords, and driven from the house. They were fastened, also, to the horses of tlie troopers; and, as they wore dragged along, the cries and the lamenta- tions of Jlary followed them ; and the troo])ers laughed at her wailing, or answered her cries with mockery, till the sound of ber grief became inaudible in the distance, when again they imitated her cries, to harrow up the feelings of her father. Claverhouse, and a party of his troops, were then in the neighbourhood of Traquair; and before that man, who knew not what mercy was, John Brydone, and his son, and the preacher, were brought. It was on the afternoon of the day following that on which they had been made prisoners, that Claverhouse ordered them to be brought forth. He was sitting, with wine before him, in the midst of his officers ; and amongst them was Lieutenant Mowbray, whose name was alluded to by the sergeant. " AVell, knaves !" began Claverhouse, " ye have been singing, praying, preaching, and holding conventicles. — Do ve know how Grahame of Claverhouse rewards such rebels ?" As the prisoners entered. Lieutenant Mowbray turned away his head, and placed his hand upon his brow. " Sir," said -John, addressing Claverhouse, " I'm neither knave nor rebel — I hae lifted up my voice to the God o' my •aithers, according to my conscience ; and, unworthy as I am o' the least o' His benefits, for threescore years and ten he has been my shepherd and deliverer, and, if it be good in llis sight, He will deliver me now. My trust is in Him, and I fear neither the frown nor the sword o' the persecutor." " Have done, grey-headed babbler !" cried Claverhouse. Lieutenant Mowbray, who still sat ^^^th his face from the prisoners, raised his handkerchief to his eyes. " Captain," said Mr Duncan, " there's a day coming when ye shall stand before the great Judge, as we now stand l)efore you ; and when the remembrance o' this day, and the blood o' the righteous which ye hae shed, shall be written with letters o' fire on yer ain conscience, and recorded against ye ; and ye shall call ujjon the rocks and mountains to cover ye" " Silence!" exclaimed Claverhouse. " Away with them!" he added, waving his hand to his troopers — " shoot them before sunrise !" Shortly after the prisoners had been conveyed from the presence of Claverhouse, Lieutenant Jlowbray withdrew ; Had having sent for the soldier who had interfered on behalf of Mary — " JMacdonaKl," he began, " you were present yes- terday when the prisoners, ■who are to die to-morrow, >vcre taken. AVhere did you find them ?" " In the old man's house," replied the soldier ; and he related all that he had seen, and how he had interfered to s;ive the daughter. The heart of the officer was touched, Hnd he w;dked across his room, as one whose spirit was troubled. " You did well, Macdonald !" said he, at length — " you did well !" Ho was again silent, and again he added — " And vou found the ]ire.icher in the old man's house — i/oujbuntl hi.m there!" There was an anxious wild- iioss in the tone of the lieutenant. " We found liim there ' replied the soldier. The officer was again silent — again he thoughtfully paced ncross the floor of his apartment iVt kuMth turning *<: the soldier, he added— "I can trust you, Macdonald. When night has set in, take your horse and ride to the house of the elder prisoner, and tell his dau;;liter — the maiden whom you saved — to have horses in readiness for her father, her brother, and— and her — her husband!" said the lieutenant faltering as he sjioke ; and when he had pronounced the word husband, ho again paused, its though his heart were full. The soldier was retiring — "Stay," added the officer, "tell her, her father, her brother, and— the jireachcr, shall not die; before day-break she shall see them again; and give her this ring as a token that ye speak truly." He took a ring from his finger, and gave it into the hands of the soldier. It was drawing towards midnight. The troops of Claver- house were quartered around the country, and his thrcu ])risoners, still bound to each other, were confined in a small farm-house, from which the inhabitants had been expelled. They could hear the heavy and measured tread of the sen- tinel pacing backward and forward in front of the house ; the sound of his footsteps seemed to measure out the mo- ments between them and eternity. After they had sung :i psalm and prayed together — "1 am auld," said John Biydone, " and I fear not to die, but rather glory to lay down my life for the great cause — but, oh, Daniel ! my heart yearns that yer bluid also should be shed — had they only spared ye, to hae been a protector to oor puir Mary I — or had 1 no driven Philip frae the house" " Mention not the name of the cast-away," said the minister. " Dinna mourn, faither," answered Daniel, " an ami mair powerful than that of man will be her supporter and protector." " Amen !" responded Mr Duncan. " She has aye been cauld to me, and has turned the ear o' the deaf adder to the voice o' my affection; but even noo, when my ihechts should be elsewhere, the thocht o' her burns in my heart like a coal o' my fire." While they yet spoke, a soldier, wrapt up in a cloak approached the sentinel, and said — " It is a cold night, brother." " Piercing," replied the other, striking his feet upon the ground. " You are welcome to a mouthful of my spirit-warmer," added the first, faking a bottle from beneath his cloak. " Thank ye '" rejoined the sentinel ; " but I don't know your voice. You don't belong to our corps, I think." " No," answered the other ; " but it matters not for that — brother soldiers should give and take." The sentinel took the bottle and raised it to his lips ; he drank, and swore the liquor was excellent. " Drink again," said the other ; " you are welcome ; it is as good as a double cloak around j'ou." And the sentinel drank again. " Good night, comrade," said the trooper. " Good night,' replied the sentinel ; and the stranger passed on. Within half an hour, the same soldier, still niuflled up in his cloak, returned. The sentinel had fallen .against the door of the house, and was fast asleep. The stranger jiroceeded to the window — he raised it — he entered. " Fear nothing," he whispered to the prisoners, who were bound to stajiles that had been driven into the opposite wall of the loom. He cut the cords with which their hands and their feet were fastened. •' Heaven reward ye for the mercy o' yer heart, and tJie courage o' this deed," said John. " Say nothing," whispered their deliverer. " but follow me." Each man crept from the window, and the stranger again closed it behind them. " Follow me, and speak not." whis- pered he again ; and, walking at his utmost speed, he con- ducted themfor severaluiiles across thehills; but still he syoke 62 TALES OF THE BORDERS. not. Old John marvelled at the manner of their deliverer ; and he marvelled yet more when he led them to Philip- haugh, and to the very spot where, more than thirty years before, he had found the child on the bosom of its dead mother ; and there the stranger stood still, and, turning round to those he had delivered — " Here we part," said he ; " hasten to your own house, hut tarry not. You vrill find horses in readiness, and flee into Westmoreland ; inquire there for the person to whom this letter is addressed ; he will protect you." And he put a sealed letter into the hands of the old man, and, at the same time, he placed a purse in the hands of Daniel, saying, " This will hear your expenses by the way — Farewell ! — farewell !" They would have de- tained him, hut he burst away, again exclaiming, as he ran — « Farewell !" " This is a marvellous deliverance," said John ; " it is a mystery, an' for him to leave us on this spot — on this very tpot — where puir Philip" And here the heart of the old man failed him. We need not describe the rage of Claverhouse, when he found, on the following day, that the prisoners had escaped ; and how he examined and threatened the sentinels mth 'death, and cast suspicious glances upon Lieutenant Blow- bray; but he feared to accuse him, or quarrel with him openly. As John, with the preacher and his son, approached the house, Mary heard their footsteps, and rushed out fo meet them, and fell weeping' upon her father's neck. " I\ly bairn!" cried the old man ; " we are restored to ye as from the dead! Providence has dealt wi' us in mercy an' in mystery." His four farm-horses were in readiness for their flight ; and Mary told him how the same soldier who had saved her from sharing their fate, had come to their house at midnight, and assured her that they should not die, and to prepare for their flight ; " And," added she, " in token that he who had sent him would keep his promise towards you, he gave me this ring, requesting me to wear it for your deUverer's sake." " It is Philip's ring !" cried the old man, striking his hand before his eyes — " it is Philip's ring !" " My Philip s !" exclaimed IMary ; " oh, then, he lives ! — lie lives !" The preacher leaned his brow against the walls of the cottage and groaned. " It is stUl a mystery," said the old man, yet pressing his hands before his eyes in agony ; " but it is — it maun be him. It was Philip that saved us — that conducted us to the very spot where I found him ! But, oh," he added, I wud rather I had died, than lived to ken that he has drawn his sword in the ranks o' the oppressor, and to mur- der the followers after the truth." " Oh, dinna think that o him, father !" exclaimed Mary ; " Philip wudna — he couldna draw his sword but to defend the helpless !" Knowing that they had been pursued and sought after, they hastened their flight to England, to seek the refuge to which their deliverer had directed them. But as they drew near to the Borders, the Rev. Mr Duncan suddenly ex- claimed — •' Now, here we must part — part for ever ! It is not meet that I should follow ye farther. When the sheep are pursued by the wolves, the shepherd should not flee from them. Farewell, dear friends — and, oh ! farewell to you, Mary ! Had it been sinful to hae loved you, I would hae been a guilty man this day — for, oh ! beyond a' that is under the sun, ye hae been dear to my heart, and your re- membrance has mingled wi' my very devotions. But I maun root it up, though, in so doing. 1 tear my very heart- BtrintTS. Fareweel ! — f ircweel ! Peace be wi' you — and may ye a' be happier thim will ever be the earthly 'ot o' Andrew Duncan ! ' The tears fell upon Mary's cheeks; for, though she could not love, she respected the preacher and she esteemed him for his worth. Her father and brother entreated him to accompany them. " No ! no !" he emswered ; " I see how this flight will end. Go — there is happiness in store for you ; out my portion is with tho dispersed and the perse- cuted." And he turned and left them. Lieutenant Mowbray was disgusted with the cold-blooded butchery of the service in which he was engaged ; and, a few days after the escape of .John Brydone and his son, he threw up his commission and proceeded to Dumfriesshire. It was a Sabbath evening, and near nightfall ; he had wandered into the fields alone, for his spirit was heavy. Sounds ol rude laughter broke upon his ear; and, mingled with the sound of laughter, was a voice as if in earnest prayer. He hurried to a small wood from whence the sounds proceeded, and there he beheld four troopers, with their pistols in their hands, and before them was a man, who appeared to be a preacher, bound to a tree. " Come, old Psalmody !" cried one of the troopers, rais- ing his pistol, and addressing their intended victim, who was engaged in prayer; " make ready — we have other jobs on hand — and we gave you time to speak a prayer, but not to preach." Mowbray rushed forward. He sprang between the troopers and their victim. " Hold ! ye murderers, hold !" he exclaimed. " Is it thus that ye disgrace the name of soldiers by washing your hands in the blood of the innocent." They knew Mowbray, and they muttered, " You are no oflicer of ours now; he is our prisoner, and our orders are to shoot every conventicle knave who falls into our hands." " Shame on him who would give such orders !" said Mow bray ; and " shame on those who would execute them ! There," added he, " there is money ! I will ransom him." With an imprecation, they took the money that was offered them, and left their prisoner to Mowbray. He ap- proached the tree where they had bound him — he started back — it was the Rev. Andrew Duncan ! "Rash man I" exclaimed Mowbray, as he again stepped forward to unloose the cords that bound him. " Why have ye again cast yourself into the hands of the men who seek your blood .'' Do ye hold your life so cheap, that, in one week, ye would risk to sell it twice? Why did not ye; with your father, your brother, and your Kife, flee into England, where protection was promised !" " My father ! — my brother ! — my wife ! — mine ! — mine !" repeated the preacher nildly. "'There are no such names for ray tongue to utter ! — none ! — none to drop their love as morning dew upon the solitary soul o' Andrew Duncan !" " Are they murdered .''" exclaimed Mowbray, suddenly, in a voice of agony. " Murdered !" said the preacher, with increased bewilder- ment. " What do you mean .-' — or wha do you mean .•'" " Tell me," cried Mowbray, eagerly ; " are not you the husband of Mary Brydone }' ' " Me ! — me !" cried the preacher. " No ! — no ! — I loved her as the laverock loves the blue lift in spring, and her > shadow cam between me and my ain soul — but she wadna I hearken unto my voice — she is nae wife o' mine !" " Thank Heaven !" exclaimed Mowbray; and he clasped his hands together. i It is necessary, however, that we now accompany John I Brydone and his family in their flight into Westmoreland. The letter which their deliverer had put into their hands was addressed to a Sir Frederic Mowbray ; and, when they arrived at the house of the old knight, the heart of the aged Covenanter almost failed him for a moment; for it was a proud-looking mansion, and those whom he saw around wore the dress of the Cavaliers. " Who are ye ?" inquired the servant who admitted them to the house. " Deliver this letter into the hands of your master," said the Covenanter ; " our business is with him." " It is the handwriting of Master Edward,* said the TALES OF THE BORDERS. 6.5 srrvant, as He tooK tne letter Tnto his hand ; find, hannfr con- aucted them to a room, he delivered it tu Sir Krederic. In a few minutes the old knight Imrricd into the room, ^\v^ tlic Corenaiitcr, and his kou and his daughter, stood. " " elcomo, thrice welcome!" he cried, grasping the hand ff the ohl man ; "here you sliall fiml a restiiig-place and a home, with no one to make you afniid." He ordered wine and food to be phiccd before them, and he sat do\m witli them. Now Jolin marvelled at the kindness of his host, and his he.irt bunied within him — and, in the midst of all, he thought of the long lost Philip, and how he had driven him from his house — and his cheek glowed and liis heart throbbed with anxiety. His son man-elled also, and Mary's bosom swelled with strange thoughts — tears gathered in her eyes, and she raised the ring that had been the token of her father's deliverance to her lips. " Oh, sir," said the Covenanter, " pardon the freedom o' a plain blunt man, and o' ane whose bosom is burning wi' anxiety ; — but there is a mystery, there is TO7nc//(i?ig- attend- ing my dcllver.ance, an' the letter, and your kindness, that I canna see tlirough — and I hope, and I fear — and I canna — I danrna comprehend how it is ! — but, as it were, the past — the l;mg bygime past, and the present, appear to hae met the- gither ! It is makin' my he.ad dizzy wi' wonder, for there seems in a' this a something that concerns you, and that con- cerns me, and one that I mayna name." " Your perplexity," said Sir Frederic, " may be best relieved, by stating to you, in a few words, one or two circumstances of my history. Having, from family affliction, left this country, until within these foiir years, I held a commission in the army of the Prince of Orange. I was pre- sent at the battle of Senetf ; it was my last engagement ; and in the regiment which I commanded, there was a young Scottish volunteer, to whose bravery, during the battle, I owed my life. In admiration and gratitude for his conduct, I sent for him after the victory, to present him to the prince. He came. I questioned him respecting his birth and his family. He was silent — he burst into tears. I urged him to speak. He said, of his real name he knew nothing — of his family he knew nothing — all that he knew, was, that he had been the adopted son of a good and a Christian man, who had found him on PhUiphaugh, on the lifeless bosom of his mother !" " Merciful Heaven ! my puir, injured Philip !" exclaimed tl\e aged Covenanter, wringing his hands. " j\Iy brother!" cried Daniel, eagerly. Jlary wept. " Oh, sir I" continued Sir Frederic, " words cannot paint my feelings as he spoke ! I had been at the battle of Philip- haugh I and, not dreaming that a conflict was at hand, my beloved wife, with our infant boy, my little Edward, had joined me but the day before. At the first noise of Lesly's onset, I rushed from our tent — I left my loved ones there ! — Our army was stricken with confusion— -I never beheld them again ! I grasped the hand of the youth — I gazed in his face as though my soul would have leaped from my eyelids. ' Do not deceive me !' I cried; and he drew from his bosom the ring and the bracelets of my Elizabeth !" Here the old knight paused and wept, and tears ran down the cheeks of John Brydone, and the cheeks of his children. They had not been many days in Westmoreland, and they were seated around the hospitable hearth of the good knight in peace, when two horsemen arrived at the door. " It is our friend, I\Ir Duncan, and a stranger !" said the Covenanter, as he beheld them from the window. " They are welcome — for your sake, they are welcome," said Sir Frederic ; and while he yet spoke, the strangers entered. " My son, my son I" he continued, and hurried forward to meet him. •' S.ay also your daughter: said Ed\vard Mowbray, as he approached towards Mary and pressed her to his breast. ' tliilip \~-tm own Philip !' exclaimed Wary, and speech failed her. " My brother T said Daniel. " Ho was dead and is alive again — he was lost and is found," exclaimed John. " O I'hiiip, man ! do ye forgi'e mei'" The adopted son pressed the hand of his foster-father. " It is enough," replied the Covenanter. "Yes, he forgives you!" exclaimed Mr Duncan; "andhe he luas forgiven me. When we were in prison and in bonds waiting for death, ho ri.sked his life to deliver us, and he did deliver us ; and a second time he has rescued me from the sword of the destroyer, and from the power of the men who thirsted for my blood. He is no enemy o' the Covenant- he is the defender o' the persecuted ; and the blessing o Andrew Duncan is all he can bequeath, for a life twice saved, upon his deliverer, and Mary Brydone." Need we say that Mary bestowed her hand uponi Edward IMowbray ; but, in the fondness of her heart she stUl ciiiled him "her Philip!" THE SISTERS A TALE FOR THE LADIES. Theue is not a period of deeper luxury and delight than the season when the nightingale raises its charmed voice to welcome the pleiades, and the glorious spring, like the spirit of life riding upon sunbeams, breathes upon the earth. Yielding to its renewing influence, the feelings and the fan- cies of3'outh rush back upon our heart, in all their holiness, freshness, and exultation ; and we feel ourselves a deathless part of the joyous creation, which is glowing around us in beauty, beneath the smile of its God ! AVho has seen the foliage of ten thousand trees bursting into leaves, each kissed by a dew drop; — who has beheld a himdred flowers of varied hues, expanding into loveliness, stealing their colours from the rainbowed majesty of the morning sun; — whohaslistoned to melody from the yellow furze ; — to music from every bush; — heard " The birds sing love on every spray," and gazed on the blue sky of his own beautiful land, swim- ming like a singing sea around the sun ! — who has seen who has heard these, and not been ready to kneel upon tho soil that gave him birth i Who has not then, as all nature lived and breathed, and shouted their hymns of glory around him, held his breath in quivering delight, and fell the pre- sence of his own immortality, the assurance of his soul's eternal duration, and wondered that sin should exist upon a world so beautiful. But tliis moralizing keeps us from oiu narrative. On one of the most lovely mornings of the season we have mentioned, several glad groups were seen tripping lightly towards the cottage of I'epgy Johnstone Peggy was the widow of a Border farmer, who died young, but left her, as the phrase runs, well to do in the world. She had two daughters, both in the pride of their young womanhood, and the sun shone not on a lovelier pair; both were graceful as the lilies that bowed their heads to the brook which ran near their cottage door, and both were mild, modest, and retiring, as the wee primrose that peeped forth beside the threshold. Both were that morning, by the consent of their mother, to bestow their hands upon the objects of their young aftections. But we will not dwell upon their bridal ; only a few short months were passed, when their mother was summoned into the world where tht. weary are at rest. On her deathbed she divided unto them equal portions, consisting of a few hundreds. Their mourn- , ing for her loss, which, for a time, was mingled with bitter- I ness, gr.adually p.assed aw.ay, and long years of h.anpincss I appealed to welcome them, from the bosom of futa- 64 TALES OF THE BOEDEKS. rity The husbands ot both were in business, and resided in a market-town in Cumberland. The sisters' names were Helen and Margaret; and, if a preference could have been given, Margaret was the most lovely and gentle of the two. But before the tree that sheltered her hopes had time to blossom, the serpent gnawed its roots, and it withered like the gourd of the angry prophet. Her dark eyes lost their lustre, and the tears ran down her cheeks where the roses had perished for ever. She spoke, but there was none to •mswer her ; — she sighed, but there was no comforter, save the mournful voice of echo. Her young husband sat carousing in the midst of his boon companions — where the thought of a wife or of home never enters — and night fol- lowing night beheld them reel forth into the streets to finish their debauch in a house of shame ! Such were the miserable midnights of Margaret the beau- tiful and meek, while Helen beheld every day increasing her felicity in the care and affection of her temperate hus- band. She was the world to him, and he all that that world contained to her. And often as gloaming fell grey around them, still would they " Sit and look into each other's eyes, Silent and happy, aa if God had given Nought else worth looking at on this side heavenl" A few years passed over them. But hope visited not the dwelling of poor Margaret. Her husband had sunk into the habitual drunkard ; and, not following his business, his busi- ness had ceased to follow him, and his substance was become a wreck. And she, so late the fairest of the fair, was now a dejected and broken-hearted mother, herself and her chil- dren in rags, a prey to filthiness and disease, sitting in a miserable hovel, stripped alike of furniture and the necessa- ries of life, where the wind and the rain whistled and drifted through the broken windows. To her each day the sun shone upon misery, while her children were crying around her for bread, and quarrelling \vith each other ; and she now weeping in the midst of them, and now cursing the wretched man to whom they owed their being. Dailv did the drunkard reel from his haunt of debauchery into his den of wretched- ness. Then did the stricken children crouch behind their miserable mother for protection, as his red eyes glared upon their famished cheeks. But she now met his rage with the silent scowl of heart-broken and callous defiance, which, tending but to inflame the infuriated madman, then ! then burst forth the more than fiendish clamour of domestic war ! and then was heard upon the street the children's shriek — the screams and the bitter revilings of the long patient wife — with the cruel imprecations and unnatural blasphemies of the monster, for whom language has no name! — as he rushed forward, (putting cowardice to the blush,) and with his clenched hand struck to the ground, amidst the children she bore him, the once gentle and beautiful being he had sworn before God to protect! — she, whom once he woidd not permit " The winds of heaven to visit her cheeks too roughly" — she, who would have thought her life cheap to have laid it down in his service, he kicked from him like a disobedient dog ! These are the every-day changes of drinking habitually — these are the transformations of intemperance. Turn we now to the fireside of the happier Helen! — Tlie business of the day is done, and her sober husband returns homeward, and he perceives his fair children eagerly waiting his approach, while delight beams from his eyes, content- ment plays upon his lips, and he stretches out his hand to welcome them; while c< The csp.'ctin' wee things toddlin' stacher throngn To meet their dad, wi' flichterin' noise an' glee. His wee bit ingle blinkin' bonnily — His clean hearth-Btane and thrifty wifie's smile noes a' his weary carkin' cares brgiiUe, An' maks him quite forget his labour ar.i l»» toU.* And, while the younglings climbed his knees, " the envie^ kiss to share," the elder brothers and sisters thronged arouji \ him, eager to repeat their daily and Sabbath-school tasks, and obtain, as their reward, the fond pressure of a fathers hand, and behold exultation and affection sparkling trom hu eyes; while the happy mother sat by, plj-ing her needle and « Ganring auld claes look amaist as weel's the new," and gazed upon the scene before her with a rapture none uul mothers know. Here there was no crying or wailing fo. food — no quarrellings — no blasphemies; but, the cheerful supper done, the voice of Psalms was heard in solemn soiuids — the book of God was opened — the father knelt, and his children bent their knees around him. And could an angel gaze upon a more delightful scene, than an infant kneeling by the side of its mother, gazing in her face, and lisping Amen! as the words fell from its father's lips, Surely, surely, as he flew to register it in heaven, a prayer I hearing God would respond — So let it be. Again must we view the opposite picture. The unhappy drunkard, deprived of the means of life in his native town, wandered with his family to Edinburgh. But on him no reformation dawned. And the wretched Jlargaret, hurried onward by despair, before the smoothness of youth had left the brow of her sister, was overtaken by age, its wrinkles, and infirmities. And all the affections, all the feelings ol her once gentle nature, being seared by long years of insult misery, brutality, and neglect, she herself flew to the bottle, and became tenfold more the victim of depravity than her fallen, abandoned husband. Sha lived to behold her children break the laws of their country, and to be utterly forsaken by her nusband; and, in the depth of her misery, she was seen quarrelling with a dog upon the street, for a bare bone that had been cast out with the ashes.* Of the extent on a voyage of discovery without a compass, .as a young fellow upon the world without a ch.aractcr. But, d'ye see, because you cant go to sea without A compass of this kind, you are not to expect that, in all cases it will insure you of reaching the Pole. No, Dick, it is rather like a pilot sent out to steer you in, when you .arc within sight of land, and without whose .assistance you cannot reach the i>ort i " In conversation, too, I hate to see a smooth- water pnppynmninfj at the rate of twelve knots, as if no vessel in the fleet could sail but hii ] own. I have seen fellows of this .sort, shewing off like gilde*! pinnace* at a regatta, wiiile they were only shewing how little theyh.ad on board. Two things, in particular, I wish my nevy to avoid — namely, arpifying in company and sv>eaklng a>>out himscll There ia a time and a pUM TALES OF THE DUKDEIJS. 67 fbi (•lorythlng ; ind, thouRh arinuiiont Itt yceW rnou|;h In Ita way, he vho i» olwavH upon tim hMikniit fur oiip, la juit iia iiiru u lio fiu>U It, 'u fli'J a" ciii'iiiy ; oml, an to ii|irakiiig of uiiu'ii mlf, iiiilviKMiiK nt ofitji Ul-luuialiiis, It La liku u iloau uf Kilt-»:ilir arniil roiiiiil the I'oiii- |i«iiy. Tlie ttrnid acrrtt of i-onvi'tnatlim la, to aay littlo In a way to ulooMi, and tliu inomi'iit ynu full ilo ao, it la liiiio to nliivoyoiir boat olf. WheiifViT you at-o a |HT«un yauii in yi»tir compruiy, tikii ymir Imt. " lihUpcnilint of iliLv tliiji,"!, lit liiui lo,.!i will to Ilia liik-taMi-. Without iMiii.iurility, tlic |.i«t cliarictrr In .■nii-« a 1ml one Tlio moiiiout a iniu liri-;\U hia w.ir.l, or U i-a iiilitTcrfut to liia cnpim- inuQt, wliy, ttii* couGilruco of lila eoinnxMlorv la at an ctiil ; ami, iiiatoml of Iwiiii! |ironiiitc;li anelior with the tide, and if he il'ou't drift h.ick with the cur- rent, pj to pieeea on a K,indlank, or be blown to aticka by a foul wind, my nanut'a not Jack. lA-t him keep a ahar]! eye upon the m^punin^, the niidille, ajid tho end of everything he uudert ikea. Ho nnirit mil tack aliout, like a fellow on a cnii't" or a rovinn eonunission , but, whatever »ind hlowa, m;iintaiu a »r; ' , keejiini; hia head to the imrt. Ilunw, the Iioit, apoke like r, wlun he a.iid it wa.l the niis- fortuue of hia life to bo w ;ii. Kut 1 tell you what, Dick, we muat nut only have an olijccl to bteer to, but it must be a reasonable object. A madman may aay he ia detonninej to go to the North I'olc, or the nioou — liut that's not thcthiiii;, I>iek ; our anticipations must be UkclihoiHla, our aiubitiuna prubaliilitiiw ; and when wo have maile ft-c- quent eatcuhttioas and find ournelvea correct in our rcckoniu;;, though wc have inailo but little way, then downi with dc>'^iondency, and stick to {craeverancc. 1 don't tiieaii a hegiznrly, acrvile, provelling perscvcnmcc, lul the misubdued detenniuation of an uuconiiucralile apirit, riding out the atonii, and wlule suiall craft aiuk ou every udc, Hi^Hiiining to ta!ke in * aingle reef. "Now, having said thua much about shaping hia courac and laying In a fn-iKht, it ia material that I drop a concluduig word with regard to hia rigging. Send him out with patched canva^m, and the veriest punt that ever ilisjraced the water will dear out before him. A patch upon hi« ciKit will be an cnibargo on his proapecta. People affect to dcfqiiao tailora ; but it ia liaae ingratitude or ahallow diasinitJation, Not that 1 m'ould for Un world ace my ne^-y an insipii6cant d.andy, but remem- ber the ntonicnt the elbowa of your coat open, every door aliuta. " lint my fiiu'cnt are crampcil with thia long epistle, and, moreover, tlie pap. r i^ full ; and with love to nuvy George, to Nelly, and tho littlo Otlttb, 1 Aiu Jl-ox Pick, " Yonr afTcctiooatc Brother, " John Rogers, " Othcrvrise " Jack thb IIamuler." All applauflod this letter Tchcn they had heard it, and they vowed tlie captain wa3 a clever fellow — a nohle fel- low — ay, and a wise one ; and they drank his health and a h.ippy New Ye;ir to him, though half of what he had written, from his nautic.-U types and symbols, was as Greek and Latin unto those who hear^ it, and worse unto Geor^^e the pcnius, who read it ; though some parts of it all under, stood. Wlicn the health of Captain Ropers had gone round, " I ■wonder in the world," said Kichard, " what it can he that my hrotlior aye refers to about being unliappy? I've written to him fifty times to try to fathom it, but I never could — he never would pie me ony satisfaction." " Wliy," said the seaman, as he sat leaning forward and turning round his sou-wester between his knees, " I believe I know — or I can guess a something about the matter. It's about ten years agi), according to my reckoning, we were coming down the .Mediterranean — the captain was as fine a looking young fellow then as ever stood upon a dick. ^Vcll, as I was saying, we were coming down the Jleditcr- rane.in, and at Genoa we took a gentleman and his daughter on boarA She w.ts a pretty creature ; I've seen notliing like her n#iiher before nor since. So, as I'm telling you, we took them on board at Genoa, for Engbuid, and they had not been many days on board, till every one saw, and I saw — though my eyes are none o' the smartest — that the captuin could look on nothing but his lovely passen- ger. It wa-sn't hard to see that she looked much in the game way at him, and I have seen them walking on the deck at night with her arm tlirough his, in the moonlight ; and, let me tell you, a glorious sight it is — moonlight on the Jleili- terranean ! It is enough to make a man fill in love with moonlight itsvlf, if there be nothing else beside him. Well, d'ye see, Oil I nm saying, it wasn't long until the old gentle- man, her father, saw which way the land lay ; and one day wo heard tho laily weeping ; hhe never caroe out of her cabin during the rest of the voyage, nor did her fither tigain gpe.ik to the master. Vi'e were laid up for a long time, and there was a report that thi> c.iptain and her had got married, unknown to her father. However, we sailed on a long voy.'igc ; we weren't b;ick to I'ligland again for more than twelve months ; but the d.ay after we landed, the cap- tain shut himself up, iiiid, for long and long, wc used to find him silling with the 8.dt water in his eyes. We again heard the re|iort that he had been married, and also that his lady had died in childbed ; but whether the child was living or ever w;is living, or wlie'.Jier it wiLS a boy or a girl, we didn't know ; nor did he know ; anil, I believe, he ncvci "lis able to hear any more about the old gentleman — so, as I say, that's all I know about the mutter, poor fellow. - Now, the squinting s-tilor remained two days in the house of Itiehard Kogcrs, and lie was such a comical m.in, and such a good-natured kind-hearted man, that Jlra Kogers was cer- tain he would be a lucky first-foot, even though he had a very unfortunate cross look with his eyes ; and she was the more convinced in this opinion, because, in a conversiitioD she had had with him, and in which she had inquired — " M'hat siller he thought the captain might be worth ? " AVhy, I'm sjiying," answered the sailor, " Captain Kogers is worth a round twenty thousand, if he be worth a single pcnnj'; — and that, I'm thinking, is a pretty comfortaglo thing for JIaster George to be heir to !" " A}-, and so it is," responded Nelly. And there was no longer anything disagreeable in the sailor's squint. Well, week followed week, and month succeeded month — spring cimie, and summer came, and han-e&t followed ; and it was altogether a lucky year to Kichard Kogers. Nelly declared that the squinting sailor had been an ex- cellent first-foot. Another j-ear came, another, and another, until eight years passed round since they had been visited by the outlandish se.aman. Nelly had had both lucky and unlucky first-feet. George the genius was now a lad of twenty, and the other children were well grown — but George was stiU a genius, and nothing but a genius, lie was indeed a good scholar — a grand scholar, as his mother declared — and a great one, as hii father affirmed. He had been brought up to no profession, for it was of no use thinking of a profession for one who was heir to twenty thousand pounds ; and, at any rate, his genius was sure to make him a fortune. In what way his geniui w.is to do this, was never taken into consideration. Slany people said, "If we had your genius, George, we could m:ike a fortune." And George thought he would and could. The joiner in the next village, however, said, that " Wi'a' George's genius, he didna believe he could niiike an clshin heft, and stick him ! — and, in his opinion, there was mair to be made by making elshin-hefts than by writing ballants !" . As I have said, eight years had passed ; it was again the I last night of the old year, and a very d.-u-k and stormy night it w.Ts. Mr Ropers, liis wife, their son George, and the rest of their family, had again seen the old year out and the new year in, and exchanged with each other the compliments ot the season, when the cuckoo-clock again announced the hour of twelve. Nelly had " hnppcd up the fire" with her own Ii.ands — a thing that she always did on tlic hist night of the old year, that it might not be out on a New Year's morning. She was again wondering who would be their first-foot, antt expressing a hope that it would be a lucky one, when a chaise drew up before the house, and the driver, dismounting and knocking at the window, begged tliat they would fuvotu hira with a light, as the ro-vls were cxoeedingly d;uk-, and tho lamps of the chaise had been blown out by llie winiL " A light 1" exclaimed Dctty, half petrified at they 68 TALES OF THE BORDERS. request; " preserve us ! is the man beside himsel ! — do ye imagine that onybody is garni to gie ye out a light the first thing in a New Year's morning ! Gae awa ! — gae a^-a !" In vain the driver expostidated — he had met vnth similar treatment at other houses at which he had called. " Ye hae nae business to travel at siccan a time o' night," replied Betty, to aU his arguments. Her husband said little, for he entertained some of his wife's scruples against giving a light at such a time. George mildly ridiculed the absurdity of the refusal; but — " I am mistress o' my ain house," answered his mother, " and I'U gie a light out o't when I please, and only when I please. tVi' a' ver leamin'^ George, ye ivad be a great fool sometimes." The voice of a lady was now heard at the window with the driver, saying — ." Pray, good people, do permit us to light the lamps, and you shall have any recompense." No sooner did George hear the lady's voice, than, in despite of his mo- ther's frowns, he sprang to the door and unlocked it. With an awkward sort of gcdlantry he ushered in the fair stran- ger. She was, indeed, the loveliest first-foot that had ever crossed the threshold of Mrs Rogers. She had no sooner entered, than Nelly saw and felt this, and, with a civility which formed a strange contrast to her answers to the driver, she smoothed down for her the cushioned arm-chair by the side of the fire. The young lady (for she hardly appeared to exceed seventeen) politely declined the proffered hospitality. " Sit down, my sweet young leddy ; now, do sit do^ii just to oblige me," said Nelly. " Ye are our first-foot, and I hope ^I'm sure ye'll be a lucky ane ; and ye wadna, ye canna gaun' out ^vithout tasting wi' us on a New Year's morning." The young lady sat down ; and Nelly hastened to spread upon the table little mountains of short bread, (of which she was a notable maker,) with her spice-loaf, milk-scones, and her best ewe-cheese, and her cream-cheese, which was quite a fancy ! And while his mother was so occupied, j George produced three or four sorts of home-made wine of his own manufacture ; for, in his catalogue of capabilities as a genius, it must be admitted that he had some which might be said to belong to the useful. " Now, make yoursel athame, my dear leddy," said Nelly; " need nae pressing. Or if ye wad like it better, I'll get ye ready a cup o' tea in a minute or twa ; the kettle's boil- ing ; and it's only to mask, so dinna say no. Indeed, if ye'U only consent to stop a' night, ye shall hae the best bed in the house, and we'U put the horses in the stable ; for it's no owre and aboon lucky to gie or t^ a light on a New Year's morning." A faint smile played across the lips of the fair stranger, at the mixture of Nelly's kindness and credulity ; and she thanked her for her hospitality, but stated that she must proceed on her journey, as she was hastening to the death- bed of a near and only relative. The young lady, however, sat longer than she wist, for she had entered in conversa- tion with George — how, she knew not, and he knew not ; but they were pleased with each other ; and there were times (thoufr:h it was only at times) that George could talk like an inspired being ; and this was one of those times. The knowledge, tlie youth, the beauty of the lovely stranger, had kindled .ill the fires of his genius within him. Even his father was surprised, and his mother forgot that the chaise-driver was lighting the lamps; and how long the fair lady might have listened to George, we cannot tell, had not the driver hinted, " All's ready, IMa'am ; the horses will get no good in the cold." She arose and took leave of her entertainers ; and George accompanied her to the chaise, and shook her hand and bade her farewell, as though she had been an old and a very dear friend. He even thought, as she replied, " Fareivell," tliat there was a sadness iir her tone, as if she were sony to say it. Richard and his spouse retired to rest , ' but stUl the thouiiht of havinfif given a lij;ht out of her house on a New Year's morning troubled her, and she feared that, after all. her lovely first-foot would prove an unlucky one. George laid his head upon his pillow to dream dreams, and conjure up visions of the fair stranger. A short week had not passed, however — Richard was re- turning from Kelso market, the roads were literally a sheet of ice — it is said that bones are most easily broken in frosty weather — his horse fell and rolled over him, and he was carried home bruised, and with his leg broken. Nelly was loud in her lamentations, and yet louder in her upbraidings, ag?iinst George and against herself, that she permitted a light to be carried out of her house on a New Year's morn- ing. " It was bom in upon me," said she, "the leddy wadna be lucky, that something would come out o' the gien the light !" But this was not all ; before two months elapsed, and just as her husband was beginning to set his foot to the ground again, from friction and negligence together, the thrashing machine took fire. It was stiU a severe frost, there was scarce a drop of water to be procured about the place, and, in spite of the exertions of all the people on the farm, and their neighbours who came to their assistance, tha fierce flames roared, spread and rushed from stack to stack, until the barn, the stables, the stack-yard, and the dwelling- house, presented a heap of smoldering ashes and smoking ruins. Yet this was not the worst evil which had that day fallen upon Richard Rogers. He was one of those indi- viduals who have an aversion to the very name of a bank, and he had the savings and the profits of twenty years — in fifty pound notes, and in five pound notes, and crown pieces — locked away in a strong drawer in his bedroom. In the confusion of the fire, and as he bustled, halting about, with the hope of saving some of his wheat-stacks, (for wheat was selling high at the time,) he forgot the strong drawer and his twenty years' savings, until flames were seen bursting from the window of his bedroom. The window had been left open, and some of the burning ma- terials having been blown into the room, it was the first part of the house which caught fire. 'Oh! I'm mined ! — I'm ruined!" cried Richard; "my siller ! — my siller ! — my hard won siller !" A rush was made to the bedroom ; but before they reached it, the stairs gave way, the floor fell in, and a thick flame and suffocating smoke buried the fruits of poor Richard's industry — the treasure which he had laid up for his children. " Now, I am a beggar !" groaned he, lifting up his hands, while the flames almost scorched his face. "Oh, black sorrow take that leddy!" cried Nelly, wring- ing her hands ; "what tempted her to be my first-foot ! — or what tempted me to gie her a light I George ! George ! it was a' you ! We gied fire out o' the house, and now we've brought it about us ! Waes me ! waes me ! I'm a ruined woman ! O Richard ! what will we do ! what was ye thinking about that ye didna mind the sUler .''" Richard knew nothing of the number of his notes, and his riches had, indeed, vanished in a flash of fire ! He was now obliged to take shelter with his family in an out-house, which had been occupied by a cotter. He had not heard from Captain Rogers for more than twelve months, and he knew not where he was, therefore he could expect no imme- diate assistance from him. It was now necessary that George should bring his genius into action — his father could no longer support him in idleness ; and, as it had always been said, that he had only to exert his genius to make a fortune, George resolved that he would exert it, and he was pleased with the thought of setting his father on his feet again by the reward of his talents. He had read somewhere in the ^-ritings of Dr Johnson, (and the Doctor had a good dcii of experience in the matter,) that " genius was sure to meet with its reward in London ;" and, if the Doctor was sure of that, George was as sure that he was a gonius, and therefore he considered the reward as certain. So Georxre determined. TALES OF THE BORDERS. G9 «s his uncle miglit live many years, that he would go to Lon- don and mako a fortune lor Limself, and to assist his father Ln tlie incantiiiif. A cow was taken to Kelso market and sold for eight pounds, and the money wasgiven-to George to pay his expenses to the metropolis, and to keep him there until his genius should put him in the way of making tlio anticipated fortune. His coat was not exiKtIy such a one as his uncle desired he should be sent out into the world in — not that it was positively a had coat, hut it w;l3 hcgimiing to be rather smooth and clear about the elbows, a ligliter shade ran up on each side of the seams at the back, and his hat was becoming bare round the edges on the crown. To be sure, as his mother said, " he would aye hae ink l)eside him. and a dip o' i^lv would help to hide that." These, however, were things that could not be mended — the wardrobe of the whole family had been consumed at the fire; but these things did not distressGeorge,for hedid not consider it necessary for tt genius to appear in a new^ coat. There were many tears shed on both sides when George bade adieu to his father, his mo- ther, and his brethren, and took his journey towards London. It w.as about the middle of I\Iarch when he arrived in the metropolis; and, having spent two days wandering about and wondering at all he saw, without once thinking how his genius was to make the long-talkcd-of fortune, on the third day he delivered a letter of introduction, which he had received, to a broker in the city. Now, it so happened, that in this letter poor George was spoken of as an " cxlraordi- «art/ genius !" " So you are a great genius, young man, my friend in- forms me," said the broker; "what have 3'ou a genius for.''" George blushed and looked confused ; he almost said — " for everything ;" but he hung down his head and said nothing. ■' Is it a genius for making machines — or playing the fid- dle — or what .''" added the broker. George looked more and more confused ; he replied — " that he could neither make machines, nor did he know anything of music." " Then I hope it's not a genius for making ballads, is it ?" continued the other. " I have Avritten ballads," answered George, hesitatingly. " Oh, then you must try the west end — you wont do for the city," added the broker ; " your genius is an article that's not in demand here." George left the office of the London citizen mortified and humiliated. For a dozen long years everybody had told him he was a genius ; and now, when the question was put to him — " What had he a genius for .''" he could not answer it. This rebufi' rendered him melancholy for several days, and he wandered from street to street, sometimes standing, unconscious of what he was doing, before the window of a bookseller, till, jostled by the crowd, he moved on, and again took his stand before the window of the printseller, the jeweller, or the vender of caricatures. Still he believed that he was a genius, and he was conscious that that genius might make him a fortune ; only he knew not how to apply it — he was puzzled where to begin. Yet he did not despair. He thought the day would come — but how it was to come, he knew not. He took out his uncle's letter, which his father had put into his hands when he left him, and he read it again, and said, it was all very good, but what was he the better of it ? — it was all very true — too true, for he understood every word of it now ; and he turned round his arm and examined his coat with a sigh, and beheld th.at the lining was beginning to shew its unwel- come face through the seams of the elbows. 1 should have told you that he was then sitting in a coffee-nouse, sipping his three halfpence worth of coffee, and kitchcnvix his pennyworth of bread, which was but half a slice, sli;;litly buttered — and a thin slice, too, compared with those of his mother's cutting He was beginning to feel one of the first rewards of genius — eanng hi/ measure .' To divine tVin nielaneholy of his feelings, and the gloom of his prospects he took up a magazine which lay on the tible before him. His eves fell upon a review of a poem which had been lately pulilished, and forwhich the author was said to have received a thousand guineas! "/I l/iousand giiiimis I" exclaimed Georg«, dropping the magazine — " A Ihunsand guinfiisf I shall make a fortune yet !" He had read some of the extr.icts from the poem — he was sure he could write better lines — Ills eyes thishod with ecstasy — his very nostrils dis- teiuled w ith delight — a thousand guineas seemed already in his ])ocket I Though, alas ! out of the eight pounds which he had received as the price of his father's cow, with all his m.iiiagement and with all his economy, ne had but eight shillings left. But his resolution was taken — he saw for tune hovering over him with her golden wings — he purchased a quire of paper and half a dozen quills, and hurried to his garret — for his lodging was a garret, in which there was nothing but an old bed and an olden chair — not even an apology for a table — but sometimes the bed served the pur- pose of one, and at other times he sat upon the floor like a Turk, and wrote upon the chair. He was resolved to write an epic — for the idea of a thousand guineas had taken pos- session of all his faculties. He made a pen — he folded the paper — he rubbed his hands across his brow for a subject. He might have said with B^Ton, (had Cyron then said it,) " I w.iiit a licro !" He thought of a hundred subjects, and with each the idea of his mother's beautiful but most unlucky finst-foot w;i3 mingled I At length he fixed upon one, and begrm to write. He wrote most industriously — in short, he wrote for a thou- sand guineas ! He tasked himself to four hundred lines a day, and, in a fortnight, he finished a poem containing about five thousand. It was longer than that for which the thou- sand guineas had been given ; but George thought, though he should get no more for his, that even a thous.and guineas was very good payment for a fortnight's labour. Of the eight shillings which we mentioned his being in possession of when he began the epic, he had now but threepence, and he was in arrears for the week's rent of his gairet. The landlady began to cast very suspicious glances at her lodger — she looked at him with the sides of her eyes. She did not know exactly what a genius meant, but she had proof positive it did not mean a gentleman. At times, also, she would stand with his garret-door in her hand, as if she in- tended to say — " Mr liogers I would thank you for last week's rent." Scarce was the ink dry upon the last page of his poem, when George, folding up the manuscript, put it carefully into his coat pocket, and hurried to the bookseller of whom he had read that he had given a thousand guineas for a shorter work, and one too that, he was satisfied in his own mind was every way inferior to his. We do not say that he exactly expected the publisher to fall down and worship him the moment he read the first page of his production, but he did believe that he would regard him as a prodigy, and at once ofi'er terms for the copyright. He was informed by a shopman, however, that the publisher was engaged, and he left the manuscript, stating that he would call again. George did call again, and yet again trembling with ho]ie and anxie ty ; and he began to discover that a great London publisher was as difficult of access as his imperial mightiness the Kinpcror of China. At length, bj- accident, he found the Bililiiipoie in his shop. He gave a glance at George — it was a withering glance — a glance at his coat and at his elbows. The unfortunate genius remembered, when it was too late. the passage in his uncle's letter — •■ the leonient the elbnw~ of your coat open, every door shuts. U'e have alreadi mentioned that the lining wiis beginning to peer througii them, and, during the fervour of inspiration, or the /i;ro» 70 TALES OF THE BOEDERS. of excitement in composing tlie epic, he had not observed tiiat the rent had become greater, that the lining too had given way, and that now his linen (which was not of a fcnow colour) was visible. He inquired after his manuscript. " AV^hat is it.''" asked the publisher. " A poera," answered George — " an epic !" The man of books smiled — he gave another look at the forlorn visage of the genius — it was evident he measured the value of his poetry by the value of his coat. " A poem !" replied be " poetry's a drug ! It is of no use for such as you to think about writing poetry. Give the young man his manuscript," said he to the shopman, and walked away. The reader may imagine the feelings of our disappointed genius — they were bitter as the human soul could bear. Yet he did not altogether despair ; there were more booksellers in London. It is unnecessary to tell how he offered his manu- script to another and another, yea, to twenty more — how be examined what books they had published in their windows — and how he entered their shops with fear and trembling, for his hopes were becoming fainter and more faint. Some opened it, others did not, but all shook their heads and said — nobody would undertake to publish poetry, or that it was not in their way ; some advised him to publish by subscrip- tion, but George Rogers did not know a soul in London; others recommended him to try the magazines. It was with a heavy heart that be abandoned the idea of publishing his epic, and with it also his fond dream of obtaining a thousand guineas. He had resolved within himself, that the moment he received the money, he would go down to Scotland and rebuild his father's house; and all who knew him should marvel and hold up their hands at the fame and the fortune of George the Genius. But a hungry man cannot indulge in day-dreams, and his visions by night are an aggravation of his misery ; he therefore had to renounce the fond delusion, that he might have bread to eat. His last resource was to try the magazines. His epic was out of the question for them, and he wrote songs, odes, essays, and short tales, on every scrap of paper, and on the back of every letter in his possession. With this bundle of " shreds and patches," he waited upon several magazine publishers. One told him he was overstocked with contributions ; another, that he might leave the papers, and he should have an answer in two or three weeks. But three weeks was an eternity to a man who had not tasted food for three days. A third said " he coxild seldom make room for new contributors — poetry was not an article for which he gave money — essays were at a discount, and he only published tales by writers of established reputation." There was one article however, which pleased him, and he handed George a guinea for it. The tears started into his eyes as he received it — he thought he would never be poor again — he was as proud of that guinea as if it had been a thousand! It comnneed him more and more that he was a genius. I need not tell how chat guinea was husbanded, and how it was doled out — but although George reckoned that it would purchase two hun- dred and fifty-two penny loaves — and that that was almost as many as a man need to eat in a twelvemonth — yet the guinea vanished to the last penny before a month went round He had fi-equently called at the shop of his first patron, the publisher of the Magazine ; and one day when he so called — " O Mr Rogers," said the bookseller " I have just lieard of a little job which will suit you. Lord L- wishes me to find him a person to vTite a painnblet in defence of the war. You are just the person to do it Malce it pungent and peppery, and it wiU be five or ten guineas for vou, and perhaps the patronage of his lordship — and ynu know no bookseller will look at genius without patronage." A new light broke upon George — he discovered why his epic had been rejected. He hurried to his garret. He began the pamphlet with the ea«emess of frenzy. It was both pepper^ and passionate. Before the afternoon or the fol- lowing day it was completed, and he flew with it to the house of the nobleman. Our genius was hardly, as the reader may suppose, in a fitting garb for the drawing-room or library of a British yeer, and the pampered menial who opened the door attempted to dash it back in his face. He however, neither lacked spirit or strength, and he forced his way into the lobby. " Inform his lordship," said George, " that Mr Rogers has called with the pamphlet in Defence of the War !" And he spoke this with an air of consequence and authority. The man of genius was ushered into the library of the literary lord, who, raising his glass to his eye, surveyed him from head to foot with a look partaking of scorn and disgust; and there was no mistaking that its meaning was — " Stand back!" At length, he desired our author to remain where he was, and to read his manuscript. The chagrin which he felt at this reception, marred the effect of the first two or three sentences, but, as he acqtiired his self-possession, he read with excellent feeling and emphasis. Every sentence told. " Good ! good !" said the peer, rubbing his hands — "that will do ! — excellent ! — give me the manuscript !" George was stepping boldly forward to the chair of his lordship, when the latter, rising, stretched his arm at its ex- treme length across the table, and received the manuscript between his finger and thumb, as though he feared contagion from the touch of the author, or fancied that the plague was sewed up between the seams of his threadbare coat. The peer glanced his ej'e over the title-page, which George had not read — " A Defence of the War with France," said he ; " by — by who ! — the deuce ! — George Rogers ! — «ho is George Rogers ?" " I am, your lordship," answered the author. " You are ! — you !" said his lordship, " you the author of the Defence ? Impertinent fool ! had not you the idea from me ? Am not I to pay for it ? The work is mine !' So saying, he rang the bell, and addressing the servant who entered, added — " Give that gentleman a guinea." George withdrew in rage and bewilderment, and his poverty, not his will, consented to accept the insulting re- muneration. Within two days, he saw at the door of every bookseller, a placard with the words — " Just Published, A Defence of the JVar with France, bj/ the Eight Hon. Lord L " George compared himself to Esau, who sold his birthright for a mess of pottage — hehadbarteredhisname, his fame, and the fruits of his genius, for a paltry guinea. He began to be ashamed of the shabbiness of his gar- ments — the withering meaning of the word clung round him — he felt it as a festering sore eating into his very soul, and he appeared but little upon the streets. He had been several weeks without a lodging, and though it was now summer, the winds of heaven afford but a comfortless blanket for the shoulders when the midnight dews fall upon the earth. He had slept for several nights in a hay-fielJ in the suburbs, on the Kent side of the river; and his custom was, to lift a few armfulls aside on a low rick, and laying himself do«-n in the midst of it, gradually placing the hay over his feet, and the rest of his bodj', until the whole was covered. But the hay season did not last for ever ; and one morning, when fast asleep in the middle of the rick, he was roused b)' a sudden exclamation of mingled horror and astonishment. He looked up, and beside him stood a countrym;ui, with his mouth open, and his eyes gazing wistfully. In his hand he held a haj-fork, and on the prongs of the fork w;is one of the skirts of poor Gcoirie's coat ! He gazed angrily at the countrTOi;in, and ruefully at the fragment of his xmfortunate coat ; and, rising, he dreiv round the portion of it that remained on his back, to Tieir " the rent the envious haxjfork made." " By goam! chap," said the countri-man. when he regained TALES OF THE BORDERS. 71 his speech, " I liavc made thee .1 spencer ; hut I mrgat have run the fork tlirougli thee, and it would have been no bhinie of mine." Thoy were leadinj; tlie hay from the field, and the penius Tvjis deprived of his lodfjing. It was some nij^hts after this, he was wandering in the noiphhourliood of Poplar, faintini; and exhausted — sleeping, starling, dreaming — as he dragged his henunil)cd and wearied linilis along ; and, as he was crossing one of the bridges over tlie canal, he saw one of "Ihe long tly-boats, which ply with goods to IJinninghani and Manchester, lying below it. (Jcorge climbed over the bridge and dropped into the boat, and finding a quantity of painted SJiilcloth near the head of tlie boat, which w;is used as a /;overing for the goods, to protect tbeni from the weather, he wrapped himsclt up in it, and lay down to sleep, llow long lie bay ho knew not, for he slept most soundly ; and, tvhen he awoke, he felt more refreshed than he had been for many nights. But he started as he heard the sound of voices near him ; and, cautiously withdrawing the canvass from over his face, bo beheld that the sun was up ; and, to in- crease his perplexity, fields, trees, and hedges were gliding past him. While be slept, the boatmen had put the horses to the barge, and were now on their passage to Binningham, and several miles from London ; but though they had passed and repassed the roll of canvass, they saw not, and they sus- pected not that they " carried Casar and his fortunes." George speedily comprehended his situation ; and extricat- ing his limbs from the folds of the canvass as quietly as he could, he sprang to his feet, stepped to the side of the boat, and, with a desperate bound, reached the bank of the canal. "Hollo!" shouted the astonished boatmen. "Hollo what have you been after ?" George made no answer, but ran with his utmost speed down the side of the canal. " IIoUo! stop thief! — stop thief!" bellowed the ooatraen ; and, springing to the ground, they gave chase to the genius. The boys, also, who rode the horses that dragged the boat, unlinked them and joined in the pursuit. It was a noble chase ! But when George found himself pursued, he left the side of the canal, and took to the fields, clearing hedge, ditch, fence, and stonewall, with an agility that would have done credit to a first-rate hunter. The horses were at fault in following his example, and the boys gave up the chase ; and when the boatmen bad pursued him for the space of half a mile, finiling they were losing ground at every step, they returned, panting and breathless, to their boat. George, however, slackened his p.ice but little until he arrived at the Ed^cware road, and there he resumed his wonted slow and melancholy saunter, and soiTowfully returned towards Lon- don. He now, poor fellow, sometimes shut his eyes to avoid the sight of his own shadow, which he seemed to regard as a caricature of his forlorn person ; and, in truth, he now ap- peared miserably forlorn — I had almost said ludicrously so. Ilis coat has been already mentioned, with its wounded elbows, and imagine it now with the skirts which had been torn away with the hayfork, when the author of an epic was nearly foiked upon a cart as he reposed in a bundle of hay — imagine now the coat with that skirt awkwardly pinned to it — fancy also that the button-boles had become useless, and that all the buttons, save two, had taken leave of his waist- coat — his trousers, also, were as smooth at theknees as though they had been glazed and hot-pressed, and they were so bare, so very bare, that the knees could almost be seen through them without spectacles. Imagine, also, that this suit had once been black, and that it had changed colours with the weather, the damp hay, the painted canvass, and the cold earth on which he slept ; and, add to this, a hat, the brim of which was broken, and the crown fallen in — with shoes, the soles of which h.ad departed, and the heels involuntarily bent down, as if ready to perform the service of slippers. Imagine these things, and you have a personification of George Rogers, as he now wended his weary way towurds London. He had reached the head of Oxford Street, and he w;m standing irresolute whether to go into the city or turn into the I'ark, to hide himself from the eyes of man. and to lie down in solitude with his misery, when a lady anil a gen- tleman crossed the street to where he stood. Their cyis fell upon hirn — the lady started — George beheld her, and he started too — be felt his heart throb, and a blush bum over his cheek. He knew her at the first glance — it was the fair stranger — his mother's first-foot! He turned round — he hurried towards the Bark — be was afniid — he was ashamed to look behind him. A thousand times had he wished to meet that lady agiiin, and now he li;id met her. and ho fled from her — the slianie of his babiliments entered his soul. Still he heard footsteps behind liim, and he quickened his pace. He had entered the Bark, but yet he heard the sound of the footsteps following. " Stop, young man!" cried a voice from behind him. Bui George walked on as though he heard it \iot. The word " stop !" was repeated ; but, instead of doing so, he was endeavouring to hurry onward, when, as we have said, one of the shoes which had become slippers, and which were bad before, but worse from his flight across the ploughed fields, came olY, and he was compelled to stop and stoop, to put it again upon his foot, or to leave his shoe behind him. While he stopped, therefore, to get the shoe again upon his I foot, the person who followed him came up — it was the gentleman whom be had seen with the fair unknown. Witb difficulty he obtained a promise from George that he woidd call upon him at his house in Pimlico in the afternoon ; and when be found our genius too proud to accept of money, he thrust into the pocket of the memorable skirt, which the hayfork bad torn from the parent cloth, all the silver which he had upon bis person. AVhen the gentleman had left him, George burst into tears. Tliey were tears of pride, of shame, and of agony. At length, he took the silver from the pocket of his skirt ; he counted it in his hand — it amounted to nearly twenty shillings. Twenty shillings wiU go farther in London than in any city in the world with those who know how to spend it — but much depends upon that. By all the liy-ways he could find, Georae winded bis way down to Rosemary Lane, where the " Black and Blue Reviver" worketh miracles, and where the children of Israel are its high priests. Within an hour, wonderful was the metamorphosis upon the person of George Rogers. At eleven o'clock he was clothed as a beggar — at twelve he was shabb}' genteel. The b.at in ruins was replaced by one of a newer shape, and that had been brushed and ironed till it was as clear as a looking-glass. The skirtless coat was thrown aside for an olive-coloured one of metropolitan cut, with a velvet collar, and of which, as the IsraeHte who sold it said, " de glosh was not off." The buttonless vest was laid aside for one of a light colour, and the place of the decayed trousers was supplied by a pair of pure white ; yea, his feet were enclosed in sheep-skin shoes, which, he was assured, had never been upon foot before. Such was the change produced upon the outer man of George Rogers through twenty shillings ; and, thus arrayed, with a beating and an anxioiLS heart, be proceeded in the afternoon to the home of the beautiful stranger who had been the eventful first-foot in his father's house. As he crossed the Park by the side of the Serpentine, he could not avoid stopping to contemplate, perhaps I should s.iy admire, the change that been wrought upon his person, as it was reflected in the water as in a mirror. When he had .ir- rived at Pimlico, and been ushered into the house, there was surprise on the face of the gent'eman as he surrej-ed tht> chance that had come over tlie person of his i^est ; but ia TALES OF THE BO±lDERS. the countenance of the young lady there was more of de light than of surprise. When he had sat with them for some time, the gentleman requested that he would favour them with his history and his adventures in London. George did so from the days of his childhood, until the day when the fair lady before him became his mother's first-foot ; and he recounted also his adventures and his struggles in Lon- don, as we have related them ; and, as he spoke, the lady wept. As he concluded, he said — " And, until this day, I have ever found an expression, which my uncle made in a letter, verified, that ' the moment the elbows of my coat opened, every door would shut.' " " Your uncle !" said the gentleman, eagerly ; " who is he ? — what is his name .''" " He commands a vessel of his own in the merchant ser- vice," replied George, " and his name is John Rogers." " John Rogers !" added the gentleman; " and your father's name .''" " Richard Rogers," answered George. The young lady gazed upon him anxiously ; and words ppemed leaping to her tongue, when the gentleman prevented her, saying, " Isabel, love, I -wish to speak with this young man in private," and she withdrew. When they were left alone, the gentleman remained silent for a few minutes, at times gazing in the face of George, and again placing his hand upon his brow. At length he said — " I know your uncle, and I am desirous of serving you — he also will assist you if yo'i continue to deserve it. But you must give up book-maiang as a business ; and you must not neglect busi- ness for book-making. You understand me. I shall give j'ou a letter to a gentleman in the city, who will take you into his counting-house ; and if, at the expiration of three months, I find your conduct has been such as to deserve my approbation, you shall meet me here again." He then wrote a letter, which, having sealed, he put it, M'ith a purse, into the hands of George, who sat speechless with gratitude and astonishment. On the follo^ving day, George delivered the letter to the merchant, and was immediately admitted as a clerk into his counting-house. He was ignorant of the name of his uncle's friend ; and when he ventured to inquire at the mer- chant respecting him, he merely told him, he was one whose good opinion he would not advise him to forfeit. In this .state of suspense, George laboured day by day at the desk ; and although he was most diligent, active, and anxious to please, yet frequently, when he was running up figures, or making out an invoice, his secret thoughts were of the fair Isabel — the daughter of his imcle's friend, and his mother's first-foot. He regretted that he did not inform her father that he was his uncle's heir — he might then have been ad- mitted to his house, and daily seen her on whom his thoughts (1 welt. His situation was agreeable enough — it was paradise to what he had experienced ; yet the three months of his probation seemed longer than twelve. He had been a few weeks employed in the counting-house, when he received a letter from his parents. His father in- formed him that they had received a letter from his uncle, who was then in London ; but, added he, " he has forgotten to <'ie us his direction, where we may wTite to him. or where ye may find him." His mother added an important post- script, in which she informed him, that " She was sorry she wiis right after a', that there wasna luck in a squintin' first- foot ; for he would mind o' the sailor that brought the letter, that said he was to be his uncle's heir ; and now it turned out that his uncle had found an heir o' his ain." It was the intention of George, when he had read the letter, to go to the house of his bencf^ietor, and inquire forj his uncle's address, or the name of the ship ; but when he| reflected that he might know neither — that he was not to I ntum to his house for three months, nor until he was scnti for — and, above all, when he thought that he was no longer his uncle's heir, and that he now could offer up no plea for looking up to the lovely Isabel — he resumed his pen with a stifled sigh, and abandoned the thought of finding out Ms uacle for the present. He had been rather more than ten weeks in the office, when the unknown Isabel entered and inquired for the mer- chant. She smiled upon George as she passed him — the smile entered his very soul, and the pen shook in his hand. It was drawing towards evening, and the merchant requested George to accompany the young lady home. Joy and agitation raised a tumult in his breast — ne seized liis hat — he offered her his arm — but he scarce knew what he did. For half an hour he walked by her side without daring or without being able to utter a single word. They entered the P.ark ; the lamps were lighted amidst the trees along the JIall, and the young moon shone over them. It was a lovely and an imposing scene, and with it George found a tongue. He dwelt upon the effect of the scenery — he quoted pas- sages from his own epic — and he spoke of the time when his fair companion was his mother's first-foot. She in- formed him that she was then hastening to the deathbed of her grandfather, whom she believed to be the only relative that she had in life — that she arrived in time to receive his blessing, and that, with his dnng breath, he told her her father yet lived — and, for the first time, she heard his name, and had found him. George would have asked what that name was, but when he attempted to do so he hesitated, and the question was left unfinished. They spoke of many things, and often they walked in silence ; and it was not until the watchman called — " Past nine o'clock." that thev seemed to discover that instead of proceeding towards Pim- lico, they had been walking backward and forward upon the i\Iall. He accompanied her to her father's door, and left her with his heart filled with unutterable thoughts. The three months had not quite expired, when the anxiously-looked-for invitation arrived, and George Rogers was to dine at the house of his uncle's friend — the father of the fair Isabel. I shall not describe his feelings as he hastened along the streets towards Pimlico. He arrived at the house, and his hand shook as he reached it to the rapper. The door was opened by a strange-looking footman. George thought that he had seen him before — it was indeed a face that, if once seen, was not easily forgotten — the footman had not such large whiskers as Bill Somers, but they were of the same colour, and they certainly were the same eyes that had frightened his mother in the head of her first-foot. He was shewn into a room where Isabel and her father waited to receive him. " TNHien I last saw you, sir," said the latter, " you informed me you were the nephew of John Rogers. He finds he has no cause to be ashamed of you. George, my dear fellow, your uncle Jack gives you his hand ! Isa- bel, welcome your cousin .'" " My cousin !" cried George. " My cousin !" said Isabel. Wtat need we say more — be- fore the New Year came, they went down to Scotland a wedded pair, to be liis mother's first-foot in the fiirm- house which had been rebuilt. II WILSON'S ?L}tslotitnI, ■Crvatitionnrij, nuJj Imnginatibe TALES OF THE BORDERS. THE PERSECUTED ELECTOR; OB, PASSAGES FROM THE LIFE OF SIMON GOURLAY. Be not afraid, most courteous reader : you will find nothing of party politics iu the following Passages from the Life of Simon Gourlay. Know, then, that Simon was a douce, respectable member of the town-council in the burgh of L ; and it was his lot or his misfortune, as he aflirmed, to be a sorely persecuted elector. But we must allow Simon to narrate the history of his persecutions in his own words. " Weel," be was wont to begin, "though I verily believe I am ane o' the most moderate men breathing, and although I seldom or never fashed my head about either Whig or Tory, I am firmly persuaded there's no a man living that has suf- fered mair frae baith parties ; they hae kicked me about as though I had been a sort o' political footba'. Ye must understand that I am ane o' the principal men in our toun- council, o' which my faither was a distinguished member afore me. By virtue o' my office, I had a vote for a member o' parliament to represent our ancient burgh ; and it had been the advice o' my worthy faither to me, owre an' owre again — ' Simon,' he used to say, ' if ye some day live to hae the honour o' being called to the council, remember my maxim — aye vote for the winning side. Mind ye this, if ye wish yer kail to be weel lithed, or to enjoy the respect o' yer neigh- bours.' Now, as I hae said, my faither was a very respect- able man ; he was meikle looked up to in the town, and his ■word, I may say, was the lawo' the council; indeed, he had a most wonderfully impressive manner o' delivering himsel'; and when he began to speak, ye wad said it was a minister preaching; but, in the coorse o' nature, he died, having idhered to his maxim through life, and I succeeded him in the business. Now, it was some years after this, and after [ had been called to the council, tliere was an election took place for the burgh. There were two candidates — a Mr. Wood, and a Captain Oliver belonging to the navy. They were both remarkably pleasant weel-spoken gentlemen; as to their politics, I knew very little about them, for, as my faither used to observe, it was a very unbecoming thing for the like o' us, that had only ae vote, to ask ony gentleman about his principles. Weel, it was at this election that my l>ersecutions began ; and sorry am I to say that they had their beginning too, in my own family. One day I was in the shop serving some customers, and, before I was aware, Mr. Wood's carriage stopped at the door. For onything I ken, his politics were tlie same as those o' Captain OUver; but, somehow or other, he was exceedingly popular in the toun, and the laddies had ' Wood for ever!' written on the wa's and window-shutters, wi' bits o' chalk. There was a crowd came rinning, and cheered round about the carriage at the shop door; for Mr Wood generally threw awa a hand- 10. Vol. I. ful or twa o' siller amongst them. I wad hae slipped into the parlour to been out o' the way, had it no been that folk were in the shop, and I saw there was naething for it but to stand fire. Weel, as I'm telling ye, Mr Wood and twa or three ither gentlemen came into the shop; and really he was a very pleasant, affable gentleman, wi' a great deal of manners and condescension about him. I was much inter- ested wi' his look, and a good deal at a loss what to say. There was nae pride about him whatever; but he just came in, and took my hand as familiarly as if I had been his equal, and we had been acquainted for twenty years. ' I have the honour of soliciting your vote and interest at the approaching election, Mr Gourlay,' says he. ' W'ee], really, sir,' says I, 'as my faither afore me used to observe, I'll tak the matter into consideration — it's best no to be in a hurry ; but I'll be very happy — that is, it will afford me a great deal o' pleasure — if I can obleege ye ; but — I'm rather unprepared — ye hae taen me unawares.' ' Well, I trust I may reckon upon you as a friend,' said he — ' I shall be very proud of Mr Gourlay's support.' ' Why, sir,' says I, ' as my worthy faither ' And just as I said this, some o' the youngsters about the door set up a titter and a hiss. It was very provoking for a magistrate to be laughed at in his ain shop, by a parcel o' idle, black- guard, half-grown laddies ; an' ' Ye young scoundrels,' says I, ' I'll put half-a-dizen o' ye into the blackhole.' And, wi' this the young persecutors hissed and tittered the mair, and set up a shout o' derision. It was vexatious beyond measure, and as I was saying, I didna ken weel what to do, for there was folk in the shop ; and, as Mr Wood and the gentlemen that were wi' him, pressed me to say definitely whether I wad gie him a vote, I observed Persecution also shaking its nieve at me frae the parlour ! For, yell ob- serve, that it was also my misfortune to be plagued wi' ane o' the sairest trials o' Job — an ill-tempered, domineering woman for a wife. She was my second wife, and mony a time hae I said, when she vexed me beyond what my spirit could bear, that I could gang to the kirkyard, and pick the remains o' my dear first partner frae the cauld grave, bane by bane, could it restore her to my bosom again, or free me frae the persecution o' her that had succeeded her. Weel, as I was saying, while !Mr Wood and his friends were pressing me, I threw a glent at the parlour door, which was half glass, wi' a curtain ahint it, and got a glance o' Mrs Gourlay standing shaking her head and her nieve, as meikle as to say, 'Gie him a vote at your peril, Simon ! ' Whether my face betrayed ony visible tokens o' my inw.ird agony or no, I canna say, but it so happened that the confounded callants had got a peep at Mrs Gourlay ahint the parlour door as weel as me, and the young rascals, having seen her manoeuvres, cried out — '■Three cheers for Mrs Gourlay!' The cheers gaed through my ears like a knife— weel did I ken that they would be rung through them for a week to come! I cin hardly tell you how Mr Wood and the gentlemen left the shop, but their backs werena weel turned till a quick rap c;un 74. TALES OF THE BORDERS upon the glass at the parlour window ; and a quicker voice cried — ' Gourlay, ye' re wanted." I desired the lads to attend to the customers, and I slipped awa ben to the parlour. There sat her leddyship, just like a tempest ready to burst. ' Ay, man ! — ye simpleton ! — ye nosiewax !' cried she ; ' and ye'U hae the impudence to gie a rote without consult- ing me ! — ye'U say, as yer silly auld faither said' ' Come, Mrs Gourlay,' says I, ' ye may carry yer can- trips upon me as far as ye like, but ye shanna, in my hearing, breathe a word against the memory o' my worthy faither.' " And ye sha'na vote for Wood,' cried she — ' or I'll keep ye in het water to the end o' yer days.' ' Eeally, my dear,' says I, ' I think ye keep me in het water as it is. But I hae gien nae vote as yet ; and, as my worthy faither used to observe' ' The mischief tak ye and yer faither !' cried she ; ' can ye no speak without aye bleth'rin' aboot him !' ' Mrs Gourlay !' says I, ' I've warned ye' ■ Simon Gourlay !' cried she, ' I've cautioned ye'- And just as the altercation was like to run very high, and to become very unseemly, another carriage drew up to the door, and out came Captain Oliver and his friends. The Captain was a pleasant gentleman, also, and very honest like. My wife flew and opened the parlour door ; and in an instant she put on such a hypocritical, weel-pleased look. ' Mercy !' thinks I, ' what's that o't ? — a woman can change her countenance quicker than a northern light, which glim- mers and vanishes before you can say, JockRobison !' Weel, I hastily rubbed my face wi' my pocket handkerchief, and made a step fom'ard to the glass to see how I looked : for I thought it would be very unbecoming in a member o' the council, and a magistrate o' the burgh, to be seen in a flurry, or as if he had been flytin'. I watna whether the Captain had heard that ' the grey mare was the better horse,' in my house or no ; for there were evil-disposed persons malicious enough to say such a thing ; but he came straight forward to Blrs Gourlay ; and — ' I am most happy to see you, Mrs Gourlay," said he ; ' I trust I shall have the honour of your interest. I know I have nothing to fear if I have the good wishes of the ladies upon my side ; and, without vanity, Ma'am, I believe I have them. My termagant smiled and curtsied to the very floor. ' Pray, step in, Captain,' said she — ' step in, gentlemen ; Mr Gourlay is within. I am sure you have our vote ; I answer for that.' My blood boiled ; I felt indignation warm upon my face. I was stepping forward to puU her by the gown, when the Captain and his friends entered. ' I am very much obliged to you, IMr Gourlay,' said he, ' for the very handsome manner in which you have given me your support.' ' Not at all obliged to me, sir,' said I ; ' but — but' Mrs Gourlay gave me a look ; and its meaning needed no words to interpret it. ' Thank you, sir — thank you,' said the Captain ; ' I am indeed obliged, very much obliged, for the frank and hand- some manner in which you have given me youx'- ' Excuse me. Captain,' says I ; ' but I would wish a little time just to consider — to mak up my mind, as it were ; for, as my faither' ' Dinna detain the Captain,* interrupted my wife ; ' he didna ken yer faither ; ye must not mind my goodman, gen- tlemen,' said she ; ' he wad aye 'be considering and con- sidering — but just put down his name, and nae mair about it- He daurna but vote for ye.' ' Daurna ! Mrs Gourlay, says I ; • that's very improper language to use to the like o' me.' Ay, help us ! the like o' you, indeed, Simon !' said she. Jnal put down his name, as I'm telling ye, gcBtlemen.' _ I kenned it would be imprudent in a man o' my regperta- bility to flee into a passion, and so held my tongue ; and the Captain, turning to me, said — ' Good morning, sir ; and I assure you I am much obliged to you." And, turning round to my wife, and shaking her hand, he added — ' And many thanks to i/ou, Ma'am." ' You are welcome, sir,' said she ; ' very welcome to half a dozen votes, if we had them.' What took place between U3 after the Captain and his party left, I wiU not relate to ye, for it was very disgracefu' — I'm ashamed o't until this day ; indeed, I earned the marks o' her nails upon my face for the space o' a fortnight, which looked particularly ill upon the covmtenance o' a magistrate. Weel, it was in the afternoon o' the same day, ane o' the gentlemen belonging to Jlr Wood's party, called again at the shop ; and, me being in the haberdashery line, he wished tc purchase a quantity o' ribbons for election favours. To the best o' my recollection, he bought to the amount o' between twa and three poimds' worth ; and, to my surprise, he pulled out a fifty pound bank note to pay for them. ' I fear, sir," says I, ' I'm short o' change : an' ye can pay for the ribbons ony day as ye're passing.' ' Oh, no,' says he, ' don't talk about the change — it can be got at any time.' And he laid the fifty pound note upon the counter. ' I trust,' added he, ' we may now reckon upon Mr Gourlay's support.' ' Really, sir,' says I, ' I have not had time to weigh — that is, to turn over the subject in my mind properly ; but I will consider of it. I am sure JUr Wood has my good wishes.' ' Thank you, sir,' said the gentleman, leaving the shop, ' I shall inform Mr Wood that he may reckon upon you.' Now, I would have called after him, that he was by no means to reckon upon onything o' the sort, for I had not made up my mind ; but I thought it would look ill, and I suffered him to leave with the impression that I was a sup- porter o' his party. I couldna think for a moment that he proposed onything to a man like me by no taking the change o' the note ; and I intended to send it to the inn in the morning as soon as the Bank opened ; but 1 happened to say, in the coiirse o' conversation, to a neebor that dropped into the shop a short while after, that I thought Mr Wood was very liberal and flush o' his siller ; and I unthinkingly mentioned the circumstance o' the fifty poimd note, and the change, and the ribbons. Weel, the person left the shop without making any pai-ticular remark upon the circum- stance that I observed ; but what was my horror, I may say J my confusion and astonishment, when, just on the edge o' ^ the evening, (for it was in the summer time,) and just as we were shutting up the shop, here's a great gilravishing and a shouting at the end o' the street, and alang comes twa or three hundred callants, and some young chields that were never out o' mischief, wi' the efiigy o' a man tied to a pole ; and they had the odious thing dressed as like me as possible ; but what was worse than a', they had a great label on its breast, wi' the words, ' Fif}i/ pounds for a pirn o' ribbons !' ■nTitten on it ; and they had the audacity to stand shouting and yelling, and to bum it afore my door. I was in such a passion as I believe man never was in afore ! Me I a magistrate, and ane o' the principal men o' the town- council, to be thought guilty o' takin a bribe ! It was hor- rible ! horrible I I first seized the yardwand, and I rushed into the crowd, and laid round me right and left, untU it was shivered to pieces ; and tlien I ran into the shop, while the mob kept hissing and yelling; and I took the fifty pound note, and gied it to ane o' the shop-lads — ' Kin,' s.iys I, 'rin wi' that to Mr Wood, or to the gentleman that brought it, and tell them I neither wish to see their money aor their custom.' So the lad ran wi' the note to the inn, and did as I ordered him. But oh! I had an awfu' nicht wi' Mrs Gourlay; I TALES OF THE BORDERS. 15 Tliere wasna an ill name that she could get lier tongue about that she didna ca' me. ' Silly Simon !' and ' Simple Simon!" were the gentlest terms tliat she used. I was ashamed to shew my face at the door, for I was the toun's talk. But, still, notwithstanding a' the persecution I was Bttfferin", I was in a switlier hoo to act, for I was deter- mined, if possible, to abide l)y my wortiiy f.iither's advice, an' vote wi' the winning side. However, it was hard to say which would be tlie winning side ; for, though iMr Wood was a great favourite wi' a majority o' the working-classes, and even m' a number o" the council, an' though he was very liberal an' lavish wi' his money, as I have said, yet there was a great number o' respectable folic took a very warm interest for Cai)tain Oliver. • There were a vast o' my best customers on biiitli sides, and it was really a very deli- cate matter for me to decide hoo to act — for ye will observe 1 am the last man in tlie world that would offend onybody, and especially a person that I'm obleeged to. Weel, just while I was pondering the matter, and considering in which way my worthy faither would have acted under similar circumstances, I received e letter in the name o' tliree or four leddies, from whom I had, first and last, received a great deiU o' siller — and who, at the same time, were gey deeply in my books — and they plainly informed me, that, unless I voted for Captain Oliver, they never, while they lived, would buy a si.xpence worth o' goods in my shop again. I thought it was very hard for a respectable mer- chant and a toun-couneillor to be so persecuted and beset; and just wliile I was sitting very sair peqilexed, in comes tlie postman wi' another letter. It was frae a Glasgow manufacturer that I had lang had dealings wi' ; and he trusted that I would oblige liim by voting for his friend, Mr Wootl ; or, if not, that I would make it convenient to ay off his bill within tliree days, or that he would find it necessary to adopt means to obtain payment. Tliis was worse and worse ; and J must inform you that the account which he had against me never would have been due but for the extravagance o' my second Sirs Gourlay. I was in a state o' misery indescribable. I wished frae the bottom o' my heart that I had been a hand-loom weaver, workin' for a shilling a-day, rather than toun-counciUor; for then I micht hae been independent. However, my wife seemed determined to tak the masterskep in the business a'the gither ; an', what m' the talkin' o' the toun, the threaten- ing o' customers and creditors, and her everlasting scolding, 1 really was greatly to be pitied. The youngsters had bonfires round the toun in honour o' the different candi- dates, and I had an excellent peat-stack behind the house. Weel, when I gaed out in the morning, what should be the first thing I observed, but that the half o' my peat-stack was carried off bodily ! ' Confound ye for a parcel o' persecuting thieves,' said I to mysel, ' but some o' ye shall get transportation for this, as sure as I'm a magistrate !' Ilowever, upon second tlioughts, and as I had nae doubt but they had been carried off for the bonfires, and as it was likely that they wad be kindling them that night again — • Sorrow tak ye,' thinks I, ' but I'll gie some o' ye a snifter ! So what does I do, but sends the shop-laddie awa to an ironmonger's for a pound o' pouther ! Mortal man canna stand it !' says I ; 'I'll blaw up the scoundrels !' I ac- knowledge it wasna just becoming the dignity o' the lead- ing man in the toun-council to tak sic revenge. But I slipped awa round to the back o' the house wi' a big gimlet in my hand, and I bores holes in a dozen or twa o' the peats, on the north side o' the stack, and filled them wi' pouther; and having closed the holes, I was just gaun to tell them in the house no to tak ony peats off the north side o' the stack, when a circumsta"ce occurred that drove it completely out o' my memory. Blrs Gourlay had an idle, worthless, half-gentleman sort o' a brother, and, to my utter astonishment and dismay, J found him sitting in the parlour when I went in. ' Brother Simon, «aid he, stcrtch- ing out his hand, ' 1 shall never forget your kindness.' ' My kindness !' gays I — ' wliat do you mean ?' ' Mean !' said my wife, in her usual snappy, disdainful manner; ' on account of our vote — which, it is believed, will be the casting vote — think o' that, Simon Gourlay — Cap- tain Oliver has promised my brother u place under govern- ment !' ' My stars !' says I, ' a piace under government ! — out vote ! — I think, ma'am, ye micht hae consulted me before ye bouglit a place for your brother wi' my vote ; and, aa my worthy faither used to observe, I maun be sure about the winning side before I promise onytliing o' the sort.' ' Consult i/uu !' cried she, like a firebrand — ' consult tjoii, indeed ! — I'll tell ye what. Councillor Gourlay, if ye had a spark o' natural affection, as you ought to have, for your lauful wife, ye wad scorn to stand higgling about a paltry vote. But allow me to tell ye, sir, the tiling is settled — ye shall vote for Captain Oliver; and, mair than that, I expi'ct him and his friends to dine here this afternoon !' Dine here !' says I, and was perfectly dumfoundered, as if a clap o' thunder had burst on my head. I felt 1 really was becoming a cipher i.i my ain house. v'es, sir — dine here,' continued she ; ' and see that ye mak them welcome, and be proud o' the honour.' 1 slipped awa into the shop, and 1 took out the Glasgow manufacturer's letter, and I thought it was a terrible thing to be in debt, but still warse to he henpecked ; but to be baith henpecked and in debt, was warse than death itsel'. I remained in a state of stupefaction until about three o'clock, when I was ordered to dress for dinner. Between four and five o'clock, Captain Oliver and several of his friends made their appearance. How I conducted mysel', I'm sure 1 canna say — I was dowie enough, but I tried to put the best face upon it that I could. Everything passed ower weel enough until after the cloth was withdrawn ; and then wine was set upon the table, and speerits for them that preferred them, and the kettle was put upon the fire to keep boiling for the toddy. The servant lassie put twa or three peats on the fire ; and just as she was gaun out o' the room, I remembered about the pouther ! Never wus human being in such a mortal state o' perturbation before. The sweat broke a' owre me. I rose and intended to rin down stairs, just to say that ' I hoped, in the name o' safety she hadna taen the peats off the north side o' the stack !' However, I had hardly reached the stair-head, and the sneck o' the door was still in my hand, when — good gracious ! — sic an explosion ! — sic a shout o' terror ! — sic a tumbUn' o' chairs and a breakin' o' glasses ! I banged into the room ; it was fuU o' smoke, and the smell o' sul- phur was dreadfu'. • Are ony o' ye hurt ?' says I. There was groanin' and swearin' on ilka hand ; and some o' them cried ' Seize him I' — ' Seize me !' cried I — ' goodness, sirs ! wad ye seize a magistrate in his ain house !' The lid o' the kettle was blawn up the chimney, the kettle itael' was driven across the table, m' its boiling' contents scattered right an' left, an' nae small portion o' them poured over the precious person o' Captain Oliver ! Oh ! it was ter- rible ! — terrible ! — sic a dilemma as I never witnessed in my born days. I was in a situation that was neither to be explained nor described. Some o them were fearfully scald-id and scorched, too ; an naething would satisfy them, but that I intended to blaw up the Captain an' the com pany ! It was a second ' Gunpouther Plot' to secure the election o' Mr Wood ! How did I answer,' said they, for tlie pouther being in the peats at all } and why Seol(ish host were encampsd around the Castle ; and the young King sent a messenger to the gates, demanding the Countess and Sir William to surrender. " Surrender ! boasting Scot I" said the chivalrous Joan ; " doth your boy king think that a I'lantagenet will yield to a Bruce I Back and tell him that, ere a Scot among ye enter these gates, ye shall tread Joan Plantageiiet in the dust; and the bodies of the bravest of your army shall fill the ditches of the Castle, that their comrades may pass over." " I t;dce not my answer from a woman's tongue," replied the herald ; " what say ye. Sir Governor.'' Do ye surrender in peace, or choose ye that we raze Wark Castle with the ground .-"" " If King David can, he may," was the brief and bold reply of Sir William Montague ; " yet it were better for him that he should have tarried in Scotland until his beard be grown, than that he should attempt it." " Ye speak boldly," answered the herald ; " but ye shall not fare the worse, by reason of your free speech, when a passage shall be made through these walls for the Scottish army to enter." The messenger having intimated the refusal of the gover- nor to surrender to his prince, preparations were instantly made to commence the siege. The besieged, however, did not behold the preparations of their enemies and remain inactive. Every means of defence was got in readiness. The Countess hastened from post to post, inspiring the gar- rison with words of heroism, and stimulating them with rewards. Even the gentle IMadeline shewed that her soul could rise with the occasion worthy of a soldier's love ; and she, too, went from man to man, cheering them on, and with her sweet and silver tones, seemed to rob even death of half its terror. Sir William's heart swelled with delight as he beheld her mild eye lighted up with enthusiasm, and heard her voice, which was as music to his ear, giving cour- age to the faint-hearted, and heroism to the brave. " Heaven bless my Madeline !" said he, taking her hand ; " ye have taught me to know what true courage is, and our besiegers shall feel it. They may raze the walls of the castle with the grotmd, as they have threatened ; but it shall be at a price that Scotland can never forget ; and even then, my Madeline shall be safe. Farewell now, love ; but as night gathers round, we must again prepare to assume the part of assailants." " You must ! — I know you must !" she replied ; " yet be not too rash — attempt not more than a brave man ought — or all may be lost ; you, too, may perish, and who, then, would protect your Sladeline .'" He pressed her hand to his breast — again he cried, " Farewell !" and, hastening to a troop of horsemen w ho only waited liis commands to sally from the gate upon the camp of their besiegers, the drawbridge was let down, and, at the head of his followers, he dashed upon the nearest point of the Scottish army. Deadly was the carnage which, foratime, they spread around; and, as they were again driven back and pursued to the gate, their own dead and their wounded were left behind. Frequently and suddenly were such sallies made, as the falcon watcheth its opportunity .and darteth on its prey, and as frequently were they driven back, but never without leaving proof to the Scottish monarch, r*^ what a desperate price Wark Castle was to be purchased Frequently, too, as they rushed forth, the Countess eagerly and impatiently beheld them from the turrets ; and, as the harvest-moon broke upon their armour, she seemed to watch every flash of their swords, waving her hand with exultation, or raising her voice in a strain of triumph. But by her side, stood Madeline, gazing not less 78 TALES OF THE BOEDEES. eagerly, ana not less interestea in the work of danger and despair ; but her eyes were fixed upon one only — the young leader of the chivalrous band who braved death for England and their ladye's sake. She also watched the flashing of the swords ; but her eyes sought those only which glanced where the brightest helmet gleamed and the proudest plume waved. Often the contest was beneath the very walls of the castle, and she could hear her lover's voice, and behold him dashing as a thunderbolt into the midst of his enemies. Obstinate, however, as the resistance of the garrison was, and bloody as the price, indeed, seemed at which the castle was to be purchased, David had too much of the Bruce in bis blood to abandon the siege. He began to fill the ditches, and he ordered engines to be prepared to batter down the walls. The ditches were filled, and, before the heavy and ponderous blows of the engines, a breach was made in the outer wall, and with a wild shout a thousand of the Scottish troops rushed into the outer court. " Joan Plantagenet disdains ye still !" cried the dauntless Countess. " Quail not, brave hearts," she exclaimed, ad- dressing the garrison, who, with deadly aim, continued ehowering their arrows upon the besiegers ; " before I yield, Wark Castle shall be my funeral pile !" " And mine !" cried Sir William, as an arrow glanced from his hand, and became transfixed in the visor of one of the Scottish leaders. Jladeline glanced towards him, and her eyes, yet beaming with courage, seemed to say, " And mine !" " And ours !" exclaimed the garrison — " and ours !" they repeated more vehemeutly ; and, waving their swords, " Hurra !" cried they, " for our ladye, St George, and merry England !" It was the shout of valiant but despairing men. Yet, as the danger rose, and as hope became less and less, so rose the determination of the Countess. She was present to animate at every place of assault. She distributed gold amongst them ; her very jewels she gave in presents to the bravest ; but, though they had shed much of the best blood in the Scottish army, their defence was hopeless, and their courage could not save them. Almost their last arrow was expended, and they were repelling their assailants from the inner wall with their spears, when Want, the most formidable enemy of the besieged, began to assail them from within. It was now that the gentle Madeline, when Sir WiUiara endeavoured to inspire her with hope, replied — " I fear not to die — to die with you ! — but tell me not of hope — it is not to be found in the courage of the brave garrison whom famine is depriving of their strength. There is one hope for us — only one ; but it is a desperate hope, and I would rather die than risk the life of another." " Nay, name it, dearest," said Sir William, eagerly ; " and if the heart or hand of man can accomplish it, it shall be attempted." Madeline hesitated. " Speak, silly one," said the Countess, v>oo had overheard them — " where lies your hope ? Could true knight die in nobler cause? Name it; for I wot ye have a wiser head than a bold heart." " Name it, do, dear Madeline," entreated Sir William. " King Edward is now in Yorkshire," she replied; " could & messenger be dispatched to him, the castle might hold out until he hastened to our assistance." " St George I and 'tis a happy thought !" replied the Countess. "I have not seen my cousin Edward since we were children together ; but how know ye that he is in Yorkshire ? I expected that, ere now, he was conquering the hearts of the dark-eyed dames of Brittany, while Ins wms conquered the country." " In dressing the wounds of the aged Scottish nobleman," answered Madeline, " who was yesterday brought i^to the Castle, he informed me." " What think yg oiyour fair ladye's plan for our deliver- ance, good brother i" inquired the Countess, addressing the governor. " JIadeline said it would be a desperate attempt," replied he, thoughtfully — " and it would, indeed, be desperate — it is impossible." " Out on thy knighthood, man !" rejoined the Coimtess — " is this the far-famed chivalry of Sir William Slontague ? — why, itisthe proposition of your o^^tj fair ladye, whom, verily, ye cannot beheve chivalrous to a fault. But is it to Joan Plantagenet that ye talk of impossibilities ? I will stake thee my dowry against fair Madeline's, I find a hundred men in this poor garrison ready to dare and do what you declare impossible." " You find not two, fair sister," said Sir William, proudly. "Oh, say not one — not one!" whispered Madeline, earnestly. Upon every man in the castle did the Countess nrge the dangerous mission — she entreated, she threatened, she oflFer- ed the most liberal, the most tempting rewards; but the boldest rejected them with dismay. The Scottish army lay encompassing them around — their sentinels were upon the watch almost at every step, and to venture beyond the gate of the castle seemed but to meet death and to seek it. " At midnight have my fleetest horse in readiness," said Sir William, addressing ius attendant — " what no man dare, I will !" " My brother ! — thanks ! — thanks !" — exclaimed the Countess, in a tone of joy. Madeline clasped her hands together — her cheeks became pale — her voice faltered — she burst into tears. " Weep not, loved one," said Sir William ; " the heavens favour the enterprise which my JIadeline conceived. Should the storm increase, there is hope — it is possible — it will be accomplished." And, while he yet spoke, the lightning glared along the walls of the castie, and the loud thunder pealed over the battlements. Yet Madeline wept, and re- pented that she had spoken of the possibility of deliverance. As it drew towards midnight, the terrors of the stonn increased, and the fierce hail poured down in sheets and rattled upon the earth ; the thunder almost incessantly roared louder and more loud ; or, when it ceased, the angry wind moaned through the woods, like a chained giant in the grasp of an enemy ; and the impenetrable darkness was rendered more dismal by the blue glare of the lightning . flashing to and fro. | Silently the castle gate was unbarred ; and Sir William, " throwing himself into the saddle, dashed his spurs into the sides of his courser, which bounded off at its utmost speed, followed by the adieus of his countrymen and the prayers and the tears of Bladeline. The gate was scarce barred behind him ere he was dashing through the midst of the Scottish host. But the noise of the warring elements drowned the trampling of his horse's feet, or, where they were indistinctly heard for a few moments, the sound had ceased, and the horse and its rider were invisible, ere tlie sentinels, who had sought refuge from the fury of the storm in the tents, could perceive them. He passed through the Scottish fines in safety ; and, pro- ceeding by way of Morpeth and Newcastle, on the third day he reached the camp of King Edwcird, near Knares- borough. The gay and chivalrous monarch, at the head of a portion of his army, like a true knight, hastened to the relief of his distressed cousin. David, however, having heard of the approach of Edward at the head of an army more numerous than his own, wid his nobles representing to him that the rich and weighty booty which they had tiiken in their inroad into England, together mth the oxen and the Imrsos. would he awkward incombrances is a battle, he reluctantly abandoned the TALES OF THE BORDERS. 79 siege of tlie castle and commenced liis murch toward Jed Forest, about six hours before the arrival of Edward and Sir William Montague. Madeline took tlic band of her lover as he entered, and tears of silent joy fell down her checks ; but the Countess Airgot to th.ink him, in her eagerness to display lier beauty and her gratitude in the eyes of her sovereign and kinsm.iii. The young monarcli gazed, enraptured, on the fair face of Ins lovely cousin ; and it was evident, while he gazed in her ryes, he thought not of gentle I'hilippa, the wife of his boy- hood ; nor was it less evident that she, flattered by the gal- lantry of her princely relative, forgot her absent husband, though in the presence of his brother. Edwnrd, finding that it would be imprudent to follow the Scottish amiy into tlie forest, addressing the Countess, said — "Our knights expected, fair coz, to have tried the temper of their lances on the Scot- tish shields, but as it may not be, in honour of your dcliver- anee, to-morrow we proclaim a tournament to be held in the castle-yard, when each true knight shall prove, on the morion of his antagonist, whoso ladye-love is the fairest." The eyes of the Countess flashed joy ; and she smiled, well pleased at the proposal of the sovereign ; but JMadeline trembled as she heard it. Kirly on the following morning, the castle-yard was fitted up for the tournament. The monarch and the Countess were seated on a dais covered with a purple canopy, and the latter held in her hand a ring which gleamed as a morning star, and which the monarch had t;iken from his finger, that she might bestow it upon the victor. Near their feet, sat 'Madeline, an unwilling spectator of the conflict. The names ■if the combatants were known to the pursuivants only, and each entered the lists armed with lance and spear, with their visors down, and having, for defence, a shield, a sort of cuirass, the helmet, gauntlet, and gorget. Several knights had been wounded and many dismounted ; but the interest of the day turned upon the combat of two who already had each discomfited three. They contended long and keenly ; their strength, their skill, their activity seemed equal. Victory hung suspended between them. " Our ladye!" exclaimed the monarch, risingwith delight; ' but they fight bravely ! Who may they be .'' Were it it not that he cannot yet be in England, I should say the knight in dark armour is Sir John Aubrey." !JIadeline uttered a suppressed scream, and cast round a look of mingled agony and surprise at the monarch ; but the half stifled cry was dro^vned by the spectators, who, at that moment, burst into a shout ; the knight in dark armour was unhorsed — his conqueror suddenly placed his lance to his breast, but as suddenly withdrew it ; and, stretching out his mailed hand to the other, said — " Rise, mine equal I twas thy horse's fault, and none of thine, that chance gave me the victory, though I wished it much." The conqueror of the day approached the canopy beneath which the monarch and the Countess sat, and, kneeling before the dais, received the ring from her hands. While she had held the splendid bauble in her hands during the contest, conscious of her own beauty, of which Border minstrel and foreign troubadour had sung, she expected, on placing it in the hands of the victor, to behold it in homage laid again at her feet. But it was not so. The knight, on receiving it, bowed his head, and, stepping back again, knelt before the more lowly seat of Madeline. "Accept this, dear Madeline," whispered he; and she blushed and startled at the voice which she knew and loved. The Countess cast a glance of envy on her companion as she beheld the victor at her feet ; yet it was but one, which passed away as the young monarch poured his practised flatteries in her ear. The King commanded that the two last combatants should raise their visors. The victor, still standing by the side of Madeliue, obeyed. It was Sir M'illiam Montague. " Ila ! IMontague !" said the monarch, " is it con V Well, for your gallant bearing to-day, you shall accompany us to Erance — we shall need such hands as thine to aecure the sceptre of our lawful kingdom. But what modest flower is this that ye deck with your hard- won diamond ?" added he, glancing towards Madeline; and, without waiting a reiily, he turned to the Counte.s.s, saying, " Is siie of thy suite, dear cozi" She hath a fair face, worthy the handmaiden of Beauty's Queen." Tlie Countess liked not his inquiries ; but, nevcrthelcBH, was flattered by the compliment with which he concluded ; and she replied, that she was the orphau daughter of her father's friend, and the worshipful divinity of Sir William. The other combatant now approached also; and, kneeling in front of the dais, raised his visor. " Aubrey !" exclaimed the monarch. "My l)rother 1" cried Madeline, startJng to his side. "Your brcther?" responded Sir William. " Wliat ! my little Madeline, a woman 1" replied the stranger. " Bless thee, my own sister !" " What I" exclaimed the monarch, " the paragon of our tournament, the sister of bold Aubrey 1 — And you, too, the combatant against her chosen champion 1 Had ye spilled blood on either side, this day's sport might have spoiled a bridal. But whence come ye, Aubrey, and when ?" " BIy liege," replied the other, " having arrived at Knarisborough on the day after the departure of your Jlajesty, I hastened hither to inform your Grace that Franco lies open to our arms, and our troops are eager to embark." In a few days, Edward left Wark, leaving behind him a powerful garrison for the defence of the Cas*.!e, but he had left it desolate to poor Madeline, for he had taken to accom- pany him, on his invasion of P'rance, her betrothed husband and her brother. That brother whom she had met but three days before, she had not seen from cliildliood — n^.r was she certain that be lived — for he had been a soJiiier from his bovhood, and his life had been spent in the camp and in foreign wars, while she had been nurtured under the protection of the Countess of Salisbury. It was about seven vears after the events we have alluded to had occurred, that Edward, covered with all the fame of a conqueror, if not the advantages of conquest, returned to England. During his victories and the din of war, however, he had not forgotten the beauty of his fair cousin, whose glances had bewildered him at Wark Castle; and now, wlien he returned, his admiration was renewed, and she appeared as the first favourite of his court. He had provided a royal banquet for the nobles and the knights who had distin- guished themselves during the French wars. A thousand lights blazed in the noble hall — martial music peeled around — and hundreds of the brightest eyes in England looked love and delight. The fairest and the noblest in the land thronged the assembly. Jewels sparkled, and studded the gorgeous apparel of the crowd. In the midst of the hall, walked the gay and courtly monarch, with the fair Joan of Salisbury resting on his arm. They spoke of their first meeting at Wark, of the siege and the tournament, and again they whispered, and hands were pressed, and looks exchanged ; and, while thev walked together, a blue gar- ter, decked with gold, pearls, and precious stones, and which, with a golden buckle, had fastened the sandal of the fair Joan round the best turned ankle in the hall, became loose and entangled among her feet. The Countess blushed ; and the monarch, with the easy unembarrassment and polite- ness of a practised gallant, stooped to fasten the unfortunate ribbon. As the nobles beheld the sovereign kneel with the foot of the fair Countess on his knee, a hardly suppressed smile ran through the assembly. But, observing the smile upon the face of his nobles, the monarch rose proudly, and, with the garter in his hand, exclaimed, " Honi soil qui mu y penSL !" — " Shame be to him who thinks ill of it!" and 80 TALES OF THE BOEDEES. buckling the garter round his left knee, he added — "Ce this the order of St George ! — and the proudest monarchs and most yaliant knights in Christendom shall be proud to be honoured with the emblem of thy garter, fair coz." Scarce however, was the royal banquet closed, when the voice of lamentation was heard in every house, though the mourners went not about the streets ; for the living feared to follow their dead to the sepulchre. The angel of death breathed upon the land — he stretched out his wings and covered it — at his breath the land sickened — beneath the shadow of his wings the people perished. The green fields became as a wilderness, and death and desolation reigned in the market places. Along the streets moved cavalcades of the dead — the hearse of the noble and the car of the citizen ; and the dead bodies of the poor were picked up upon the streets ! The churchyards rose as hills, and fields were turned up for the dead ! The husband fled from his dying wife ; the mother feared to kiss her own child ; and the bridegroom turned in terror from her who was to have been his bride upon the mom. There was no cry heard but — " The Dead ! — the Dead !" The plague walked in silence, sweeping its millions from the earth, laughing at the noisy slaughter of the sword, making kings to tremble, and trampling upon conquerors as dust. Such was the state of London, when Sir "William Mon- tague and Sir John Aubrey arrived from France. In every street, they met the long trains of tie dead being borne to their grave ; but the living had deserted them ; and, if they met an occasional passenger, fear and paleness were upon his face. They hurried along the streets in silence — for each tTould have concealed his thoughts from the other — but the thou"-hts of both were of JIadeline ; and the one trembled lest he should liud his betrothed, the other his sister, %i ith the dead I They proceeded to the house of the Duchess of S;Jisbury ; but they were told that she had fled to seek a place of refuge from the destroying glance of the pesti- lence. From the domestics, however, they learned that Aladeline had ceased to be the companion of the Duchess ; but they were also directed where they would find her with a friend in the city — if she yet lived ! But, added their informants, they had heard that, in the street which they named, the inhabitants died faster than the living could bury them. When the haughty Joan became the acknow- ledged favourite of the King, she was no longer a meet friend or protector to the gentle Jladeline ; and the latter had taken up her residence in the house of a merchant, who, in his youth, had fought by her father's side ; and where, if she enjoyed not the splendour and the luxuries of wealth, neither was she clothed vs-ith the trappings of shame. "With anxious steps the betrothed husband and the bro- ther hastened to the dwelling of the merchant. They reached it. " Doth Madeline Aubrey reside here ?" inquired they in the same breath. " Does she live ? — Does she live .'" " She doth reside here," answered the citizen, " and — the saints be praised ! — good Sladcline hath escaped, mth my whole house ; and I believe it is for her sake, though she feareth no more the breath of the pestilence, than though it ivere healthsome as the summer breeze bearing the frag- rance of the May-thorn. But, belike, ye would speak ■with her, gentlemen — ye may step in, good sirs, and wait till she return." Her brother started back. " Gracious Heaven ! can my Jladeline be abroad at a time like this !" exclaimed Sir William, " when men tremble to meet each other, and the hands of friends con- vey contagion ! Can ye inform us, good man where we shall find her .='" " Nay, that I cannot," answered he ; ' for, as I have told ve, sweet Madeline feareth not the plague, but walketh "aVroad as though it existed not ; and now doubtless, she is soothing tne afflicted, or handing a cupof water tothe dying stranger whom his own kindred have fled from and forsaken when the evil came upon him. But, as ve seem acquainted with her, will not ye tarry till she come ?" They gazed towards each other with horror and witn Tea- i vet, in the midst of their apprehensions and dismay, each admired the more than courage of her of whom Joan Plantagenet had said that she had more wisdom of head than boldness of heart. They entered the house, and they sat do%vn together in silence. Slowly, wearily the moments passad on, each strengthening anxiety, each pregnant with agonv- " She may never return \" groaned Sir WiUiam ; " for the healthy have been smitten down upon the streets ; and the ^^'retched hirelings, who make a harvest of death, have borne to the same grave the dying with the dead !" At length, a light footstep was heard npon the stairs. They started to their feet. The door opened, and Jlade- line,' more beautiful than ever they had beheld her, stood before them. " ]\Iy omi ! — my Madeline !" cried Sir William, hasten- ing to meet her. " Jly sister !" exclaimed her brother. Her head rested on the bosom of those she loved ; and, in the rapture of the moment, the pestilence and the desolation that reigned around were forgotten. At length, the danger to which she had exposed herself recurring to his mind — " Let us flee from this horrid cbamel-bouse, dearest." said Sir William, " to where our bridal may not be mingled with sights of wo, and where the pestilence pnrsueth not its victims. Come, my own — my betrothed — my Made- line — let us haste away." "Wherefore would my William dy?" said she — and a smile of joy and of confidence played upon her lips; " have ye not defied death from the sivord and the spear, and braved it as it sped with the swift flying arrow, and would ye turn and flee from the pestilence which worketh only what the sword performs, and what chivalry requires as s sacrifice to the madness of woman's folly .'' But whither would you flee to escape it ? Be it south or north, it is there ; and east or west, it is there also. If ye flee from the pesti- lence, would ve flee also from the eye of Him who sends it.?" Again they urged her to leave the city ; and again stie endeavoured to smile ; but it died languidly on her Up — the rose on her cheek vanished, and her mild eyes in a moment became dim. She sank her head upon the bosom of her lover, and her hand rested on tha shoulder of her brother. The contagion had entered her heart. A dark- ening spot gathered upon her fair cheek — it was the shadow of the finger of death — the seal of eternity ! " My Jladeline !" cried Sir William — " merciful Hea- ven ! — spare her ! spare her !" " Oh, my sister !" exclaimed her brother, " have I has- tened to my native land, but to behold thee die .''" She feebly pressed their hands in hers — " Leave me — leave me, loved ones ! — my William ! — my brother ! — flee from me ! — there is death in the touch of your ^Madeline ! — We shall meet again !" The plague-spot d;urkened on her cheek ; and, in a few hours, Madeline Aubrey was numbered with its victims. W 1 1. S N ' S IDi'ston'cnl, Cvnbitionnr!), nnb Imnginntibe TALES OF THE BORDERS. THE SEEKER. Amongst the many thousand readers of these tales, there are, perhaps, few wlio have not observed that the object of the writer is frequently of a higher kind than that of merely contributing to their amusement. He would wish "to point a moral," while he endeavours to "adorn a tale." It is with this view that he now lays before them the history of a Sef.kkr. The first time he rememb'-J hoiiring, or rather of noticing the term, was in a c<: -iversation with a living author respecting the merits of a popular poet, when, his religiotis opinions being adverted to, it was mentioned that, in a letter to a brother poet of equal celebrity, he de- scribed himself as a Seeker. I w.as struck with the word and its application. I had never met with the tool who saith in his heart that there is no God ; and though I had known many deniers of Revelation, yet a Seekek, in the sense in which the word was applied, appeared a new cha- racter. But, on reflection, I found it an epithet applicable to thousands, and adopted it as a title to our present story. Richard Storie was the eldest son of a Dissenting minister, who had the pastoral ch.irge of a small congregation a few miles from Hawick. His father was not what the world calls a man of t.ilent, but he possessed what is far beyond talents — piety and humility. In his own heart he felt his Bible to be true — its words were as a lamp within him — and from his heart he poured forth its doctrines, its hopes, and consolations, to others, with a fervour and an earnest- ness which Faith only can inspire. It is not the thunder of declamation, the pomp of eloquence, the majesty of rhetoric, the rounded period, and the glow of imagery, which can chain the listening soul, and melt down the heart of the unbeliever, as metals yield to the heat of the furnace. Shew me the hoary-headed preacher, who carries sincerity in his very look and in his very tones, who is animated because faith inspires him, and out of the fulness of his own heart his mouth speaketh, and there is the man from whose tongue truth floweth as from the lips of an apostle ; and the small still voice of conscience echoes to his words, while hope burns and the judgment becomes convinced. Where faith is not in the preacher, none will be produced in the hearer. Such a man was the father of Eichard Storie. He had fulfilled his vows, and prayed with and for his children. He set before them the example of a Christian parent, and he rejoiced to perceive that that ex- ample was not lost upon them. We pass over the earlier years of Eichard Storie, as during that period he had not become a Seeker, nor did he differ from other children of his age. There was, indeed, a thoughtfolncss and sensibility about his character ; but these were by no means so remarkable as to require parti- cular notice, nor did they mark his boyhood in a peculisr degree. The truths which from his childhood he had been accustomed to hearfrom his father's lipshehad neverdoubted; but he felt their truth as he felt his father's love, for both had been imparted to him together. He had fixed upon the profession of a surgeon, and, at the age of eighteen, he was sent to Edinburgh to attend the classes. He was a lealous student, and his progress realized the fondest wishes 11. Vol. I.* and anticipations of his parent. It wa.s during his second session that Richard was induced, by some of liis fellow collegians, to become a member of a deb.iting society. It was composed of many bold and ambitious young men, who, in the confidence of their hearts, rashly dared to meddle with things too high for them. There were many amongst them who regarded it as a proof of manliness to avow their scepticism, and who gloried in scoffing at the eternal truths which had lighted the souls of their fathers when the darkness of death fell upon their eyelids. It is one of the besetting sins of youth to appear wise above what is written. Tb.ere were many such amongst those with whom Richard Storie now associated. From them he first heard the truths which had been poured into his infant ear from liis father's lips attacked, and the tongue of the scoffer rail against them. His first feeling was horror, and he shuddered at the im- piety of his friends. He rose to combat their objections and refute their arguments, but he withdrew not from the society of the wicked. Week succeeded week, and he became a leading member of the club. He was no longer filled with horror at the bold assertions of the avowed sceptic, nor did he manifest disgust at the ribald jest. As night silently and imperceptibly creeps through the air, deepening shade on shade till the earth lies buried in its darkness, so had the gloom of Doubt crept over his mind, deepening and darkening, till his soul was bewildered in the sunless wilderness. The members acted as chairman of the society in rotation, and in his turn the ofiice fell upon Richard Storie. For the first time he seemed to feel conscious of the darkness in which his spirit was enveloped ; conscience haunted him as a hound followeth its prey ; and still its small still voice whispered — " Who sitteth in the scorner's chair." The words seemed burning on his memory. He tried to forget them, to chase them away — to speak of, to listen to other things ; but he could not — " W/io sitteth in the scorne7-'s chai}-" rose upon his mind as if printed before him — as if he heard the words from his father's tongue — as though they would rise to his own lips. He was troubled — his conscience smote him — the darkness in which his soul was shrouded was made visible. He left his com- panions — he hastened to his lodgings and wept. But his tears brought not back the light which had been extinguished within him, nor restored the hopes which the pride and the rashness of reason had destroyed. He had become the willing prisoner of Doubt, and it now held him in its cold and iron grasp, struggling in despair. Reason, or rather the self-sufficient arrogance of fancied talent which frequently assumes its name, endeavoured to suppress the whisperings of conscience in his breast ; and in such a state of mind was Richard Storie when he was sum- moned to attend the deathbed of his father. It was winter, and the snow lay deep on the ground, and there was no con- veyance to Hawick until the following day ; but, ere the morrow came, eternity might be between him and his parent. He had wandered from the doctrines that parent had taught, but no blight had yet fallen on the affections of his heart. He hurried forth on foot ; and, having travelled all night in 82 TALES OF THE BORDERS sorrow and in anxiety, before daybreak ne arrived at the home of his infancy. Two of the elders of the congregation stood before the door. " Ye are just in time, Mr Richard/' said one of them mournfully, " for he'll no be lang now ; and he has prayed earnestly that he might only be spared till ye arrived." Richard wept aloud. " Oh, try and compose yoursel, dear sir," said the elder. ' Your distress may break the peace with which he's like to pass away. It's a sair trial, nae doubt — a visitation to us a' — but ye ken, Richard, we must not mourn as those who have no hope." " Hope !" groaned the agonized son as he entered the house. He went towards the room where his father lay — his mother and his brethren sat weeping around the bed. " Richard !" said his afflicted mother, as she rose and flung her arms around his neck. The dying man heard the name of his first-born, his languid eyes brightened, he endeavoured to raise himself upon his pillow, he stretched forth his feeble hand. — "Richard! — my own Richard!" he exclaimed; "ye hae come, my son — my prayer is heard, and I can die in peace ! I longed to see ye, for my spirit was troubled upon yer account — sore and sadly troubled ; for there were ex- pressions in yer last letter that made me tremble — that made me fear that the pride o' human learning was lifting up the heart o' my bairn, and leading his judgment into the dark paths o" error and unbelief — but, oh ! those tears are not the tears of an unbeliever !" He sank back exhausted. Richard trembled. He again raised his head. " Get the books," said he, feebly, " and Richard will make worship. It is the last time we shall all join together in praise on this earth, and it will be the last time I shall hear the voice o' my bairn in prayer, and it is long since I heard it. Sing the hymn, ' The hour of my departure's come,' and read the twenty-third psalm." Richard did as his dying parent requested; and, as he knelt by the bedside, and lifted up his voice in prayer, his con- science smote him, agony pierced his soul, and his tongue faltered. He now became a Seeker, seeking mercy and truth at the same moment : and, in the agitation of his spirit, his secret thoughts were revealed, his doubts were manifest- ed! A deep groan issued from the dying bed. The voice of the supplicant failed him — his Amen died upon his lips — he started to his feet in confusion. ' My son ! ray son !" feebly cried the dying man, " ye hae lifted yer eyes to the mountains o' vanity, and the pride o' reason has darkened yer heart, but, as yet, it has not hardened it. Richard ! remember the last words o' yer dying faither — ' Seek, and ye shall find.' Pray with an humble and a contrite heart, and in yer last hour ye will hae, as I hae now, a licht to guide ye through the dark valley of the shadow of death." He called his wife and his other children around him — he blessed them — he strove to comfort them — he commit- led them to His care, who is the Husband of the widow, and the Father of the fatherless. The lustre that lighted up 111= eyes for a moment, as he besought a blessing on them, vanished away, his head sank back upon his pillow, a low moan was heard, and his spirit passed into peace. His father's death threw a blight upon the prospects of Richard. He no longer possessed the means of prosecuting his studies ; and, in order to support himself, and assist his mother, he engaged himself as tutor in the family of a gen- tleman in East Lothian. But there his doubts foUowed him, and melancholy sat upon his breast. He had thoughtlesslv, almost imperceptibly, stepped into the gloomy paths of unbe- lief, and anxiously he groped to retrace his steps ; but it was as a blind man stumbles ; and, in wading through the maze of "ontroversy for a guide, his way became more intricate, and (be darimess of his mind more intense. He repented that he had ever listened to the words of the scofitr, or sat in the chair of the scomer ; but he had permitted the cold mists of scepticism to gather round his mind, till even the affections of his heart became blighted by their influence. He v. as now a solitary man, shunning society; and at those hours when his pupils were not under his charge, he would wander alone in the wood or by the river, brooding over unutterable thoughts, and communing with despair — for he sought not, as is the manner of many, to instil the poison that had destroyed hia own peace into the minds of others. He earned his punish- ment in his soul, and was silent — in the soul that was doubt- ing its oivn existence ! Of all hypochondriacs, to me the unbeliever seems the most absurd. For, can matter think, can it reason, can it doubt ? Is it not the thing that doubts which distrusts its own being ? Often when he so wander, ed, the last words of his father — " Seek, and ye shall find"— were whispered in his heart, as though the spirit of the departed breathed them over him. Then would he raise his hands in agony, and his prayer rose from the solitude of the wood«. After acting about two years as tutor, he returned to Edinburgh, and completed his studies. Having, with diflS- culty, from the scantiness of his means, obtained his diplo- mas, he commenced practice in his native village. His brothers and his sisters had arrived at manhood and woman- hood, and his mother enjoyed a small annuity. Almost from boyhood, he had been deeply attached to Agnes Brown, the daughter of a neighbouring farmer ; and, about three years after he had commenced practice, she bestowed on him her hand. She was all that his heart could wish — meek, gen- tle, and affectionate — and her anxious love threw a gleam of sunshine over the melancholy that had settled upon his soul. Often, when he fondly gazed in her eyes, where affection beamed, the hope of immortality would flash through his bosom — for one so good, so made of all that renders virtue dear, but to be bom to die and to be no more, he deemed impossible. They had been married about nine years, and Agnes had become the mother of five fair children, when, in one day. Death entered their dwelling, and robbed them of two of their little ones. Their neighbours had gathered together to comfort them, and the mother in silent anguish wept over her babes ; but the father stood tearless and stricken with grief, as though his hopes were sealed up in the coffin of his children. In his agony, he uttered words of strange meaning. The doubts of the Seeker burst forth in the accents of despair. The neighbours gazed at each other. They had before had doubts of the religious principles of Dr Storie — now those doubts were confirmed. In the bitter- ness of his grief, he had spoken of the grave as the eternal prison of the dead — and of futurity and a resurrection as things he hoped for, but believed not. His words were circulated through the village, and ovei the country — and, as they spread, they were exaggerated. Many began to regard him as an unsafe man to visit a death- bed, where he might attempt to rob the dying of the ever- lasting hope which enables them to triumph over the last enemy. His practice fell ofi^, and the wants of his family increased. He was no longer able to maintain an appear- ance of respectability ; his coat had assumed a melancholy hue ; and he gave up assembling with his family amidst the congregation over which his father had been pastor. His circumstances aggravated the glnom of his mind ; and, for a time, he became not aSEKKER, but one who abandoned him- self to callousness and despair. Even the afi'ectinn of his wife — which knew no change, but rather increased as afilic- tion and misfortune c;iine upon them — with the smiles and affection of his children, became irksome. Their love in- creased his misery. His own house was all but fors.iken, and the blacksmith's shop became his consulting room, the village alehouse his laboratory. Misery and contempt heightened TALES OF THE BORDERS, 83 the " shadows, clouds, and darkness, ' which rested on his mind. To his anguish and excitement he had now aiKled habits of intemperance — his health became a wreck, and Ik- s:uik upon his bed, a miserable and a ruined man. Tlie shadow ot" death seemed lowering over him, and he lay trembling, shrinking from its approach, shuddering and brooding over the cheerless, the horrible thought — uiinihi- liilion ! But, even thi'n, his poor Agnes watelied over him witli a love stronger than death. She strove to cheer liiiii with the thought tiiat ho would still live — that they would again be happy- " O my husband 1" cried she, fondly, " vicid imt to despair — scek\ nnd yc shal! JincI!" " <) heavens, Agnes!" exclaimed he, " 1 have sought! — f have sought! 1 have been a Skkki'.u until now; but Truth flees from me, Hope mocks me, and the terrors of Death only tind me !" " Kneei with me, mv children," she cried ; " let us pray for niercv and peace of mind for vour jioor father.'" — And the fond wife and her offspring knelt around the bed where her husband lay. A gleam of joy passed over the sick man's countenance, as the voice of her snjiplication rose upon his ear, and a rav of hope fell upon his heart. "Amen!" he uttered as she arose; and "Amen!" responded their children. On the bed of sickness, his heart had been humbled ; he liad, as it were, seen death face to face, and the nearer it approached, the stronger assurances did he feel of the im- mortalitv he had dared to doubt. He arose from his bed a new man — hope illumined, and faitli began to glow in his l)osom. His doubts were vanq\iisbed, his fears dispelled. He had sought, and at length found — found the joys and the hopes of the Christian. He regained the esteem of men, and again prospered ; and this was the advice of the Seeker to his children — " Avoid trusting to reason tvlici it tvould flatter t/oii rvith your otvii wisdom; for it bcgeiteth doubt — doubt, unbelief- — unbeliij] despair — and despair, death!" THE SIEGE. A DRAMATIC TALE. Dr.v.matis Person.e. — SiK Alexander Seton, Governor of Berwick : Richard and Henry, his Sons. Provost Ramsay. Hugh Elliot, a Traitor. King Edivakd. Eaul Percy. Matilda, Wife of Seton, &c. Scene I. — A Street — the Market-Place. Enter Sir .-^lexandkh Seton, Richard and Henry, (hi.f Sons.) PuovosT Ramsay, Hugh Elliot, and others (if the People. Provost Ramsaif. — Brither Scotchmen ! it is my fixed an' solemn opinion, that the King o' England has entered into a holy alliance wi" the Enemy o' Mankind ! An' does he demand us to surrender ! — to gie up our toun ! — our proper- ty ! — our lives ! — our liberty ' to Southern pagans, that hae entered into compact wi' the pow'ers o' the air. Surrender!— no, Scotchmen ! While we breathe, we will breathe the breath o' Freedom! as it soughs down the Tweed, between the heatherv hills o' our ain auld country ! — I am but Pro- vost o' Berwick, Sir Alexander, an' ye are its Governor ; an', in a time like this, the power o' defending or surrender- ing the gates is vours ; but, though ye gie up the keys this very hour, an' were every stane o' the walls turned ane upon anither — here ! — the power to defend this market-place is mine ! — and here will I stand, while this hand can wield a sword, or a Scotchman is left to die bv mv side ! Sir Alex — Fear not, good Provost ; I through life have learned To !ive with honour, or with honour fall ? Richard. — And as the father dies, so shall his sons ^^'hat savest thou. Henry? Henry — I would .say nut this — (If one wi a smooth chin may li.ive a voice) — When thou dost iKjblv fall, I'll but survive To strike revenge — tlieii follow thy example. Provost Ramsay. — Bravely sai(l, callants ! A» sure ut death, 1 wish ye were my sons ! Do ye ken, Sir Alexander, the only thing that grieves me, in a day like this, is, that I bae naebody to die for tlie glory an' honour o' auld Scot- laiul, but mysel. But, save us, neehor Elliot I ve look as diiuf an' as dowie-like, as if ye had been forced to mak yer breakfast o' yer coat-sleeve. Hugh Elliot. — In truth, methinks, this is no time (or smiles — fn every street, each corner of the town. Struck by some unseen hand, the dead are strewed; From every house the children's wail is heard. Screaming in vain for food ; and the poor mother, \V'orn to a skeleton, sits groaning by ! .Aly bimse. 'tis known, o'erlooks the battlements; "I'is not an hour gone that I left my couch. Hastening to speed me hither, when a sound. Fierce as the thunders, shook our tirm-built walls — The casements fell in atoms, and the bed, Which I that moment left, rocked in confusion: I turned to gaze on it, and 1 beheld! — beheld My wife's fair bosom torn — her heart laid bare! .And the red stream came oozing to my feet! Is this a time for smiles? Provost Ramsay. — Your wife! Heaven preserve usl — Weel, after a', I hae reason to be tliankfu' I hae neither wife nor bairns on a day like this! Sir Alex. — Behold an envoy from the English camp, Sent with proposals, or some crafty truce. Hugh Elliot. — Let me entreat you, then, niosl noble sir. Give him all courtesy; and, if his terms Be such as we in honour m.av accept. Refuse them not, by saying — we will die. Enter Earl Percy and Attendants. Percy. — Good morrow, my Scotch cousins! My gracious sovereign, your light lawful master Hath, in his mercy, left you these conditions — Now to throw wide your gates, and, if ye choose, Go walk into the Tweed, and drown your treason ; Or run, like scapegoats, to the wilderness. Bearing your sins, and half a week's provision ; Or, should these terms not meet your approbation, Ere midnight, we shall send some Jleeter messengeti, .So now, old Governor, my master's answer i Provost Ramsay. — The mischief's in your impudence. But were I Sir Alexander, the only answer your m.aster should hae, wad be your weel-bred tongue sent back npoa the end o' an arro\v ; an' that wad be as Jlcel a messenger, as ye talk about ^ec^ messengers^ as ony I ken o'. Percy. — Peace, thou barbarian ! keep thy frog's throat closed. I say, old greybeard, bast thou found an answer? Sir Alex. — Had my Lord Percy found more fitting phrase To conch his haughty mandate, I, perhaps, Had found some meet reply. But, as it is, Ihou hast thine answer in this people's eyes. Hugh Elliot. — Since we with life and honour may depart .Send not an answer that must seal our ruin, Though it be hero-like to talk of death. [ Enter Lady Seton, listening. Bethink thee well, Sir Governor: these men Have wives with helpless infants at their breasts; V What husband, think ve, would behold a child Dashed from the bosom where his head had pillowed, That his fair wife might fill a conqueror's arms ! These men have parents, feeble, helpless, old ; Yea, men have daughters! — they have maids that love them — 81 TALES OF THE "BORDERS. Daughters and maidens chaste as the new moon — Will they behold them screaming on the streets, And in the broad day be despoiled by violence? Think of these things, my countrymen ! ^Aside to Percy. Now, my Lord Percy, you maj read your answer. Percy, [aside.^ — So ! thou art disaffected, good Sir Orator — Well, ply thy wits, and Edward will reward thee — Though, for my ]iart, I'd knight thee with a halter ! Si' Alex. — Is this thy counsel in the hour of peril, Milk-hearted man ! To thee, and all like thee, / offer terms more generous still than Edward's : Depart ye by the Scutch or English gate — Both shall be opened. Lade your beasts of burden — Take all you have — your food, your tilthy gold. Your wives, your children, parents, and yourselves I — Go to our Scottish King, and prate of courage ! Or go to Edward — Percy will conduct thee. ^Lady Seton advances fortvard. Lady "Se/o?;.— Spoke like thyself, my husband ! Out on thee, slave ! \_To Elltot. Or shall I call thee traitor ! What didst thou On finishing X.\\y funeral service, whisper In my Lord Percy's ear.'' Elliot. — I whisper, lady ? Lady Seton. — You whisper, smooth-tongued sir ! Percy, [_aside.'] — Zounds ! by the coronet of broad Nor- thumberland, Could I exchange it for fair England's crown, I'd have my body-guard of women's eyes. And make the whole sex sharp-shooters ! Provost Ramsay — Waes me ! friend Elliot, but you have an unco duuifoundered-like look, after that speech o' yours in defence o' liberty, and infants, and fair bosoms, maiden screams, and grey hairs, and what not. Sir Alex. — Percy, we hear no terms but death or liberty — This is our answer. Percy. — Well, cousins, be it so. The wilful dog — As runs the proverb. Lady, fare-ye-well. \_Exit. Sir Alex. — On with me, friends ' — on to the southern rampart ! There, methinks, they meditate a breach. On, Scotsmen ! on — For Freedom and for Scotland! \_Exeunt. Scene II. — Town Rampaiis. Enter Sir Alexander, i^iCHARD, IIknry, Phovost Ramsay, IIugh Elliot, and Populace. Sir Alex — To-day, my townsmen, I shall be your leader; And though my arms may lack their wonted vigour. Here are my pledges [pointing to his sons^ placed on either side. That seal a triumph youth could never reap. To-day, my sons, beneath a father's eye, Oh, give such pride of feeling to his heart. As shall outshame the ardour of his youth. And nerve his arm with power strong as his zeal ! \_Exeunt all, save lIuoH Elliot. Elliot. — Thanks to my destiny! — the hour is come — The wished for hour of vengeance on mine enemy ! — Heavens! there is neither nobleness nor virtue, Nor any quality that beggars boast not. But he and his smooth sons have swallowed up; And all the world must mouth their bravery! — I owe a debt to Scotland, and to him! And I'll repay it ! — I'll repay it now ! This letter will I shoot to Edward's camp — And now, ere midnight, I'm revenged! — revenged! I^Lady Seton appears from the window of the Castle, as Elliot isjixtng a letter on an arrotv. Lady Seton, \_Jrnm the window."^ — Hold, traitcar ! hold ! Or. bv the poTpers above us, this very houT Your body o'er these battlements shall hang For your fair friends to shoot at ! [[Elliot drops the how. Elliot,[aside.'] — Now fleet destruction seize the lynx-eyed fiend — Trapped in the moment that insured success ! Thank fate — my dagger's left ! — she has a son ! Lady Seton. — Go, worthless recreant, and in thickest fight Blot out thy guilty purpose — know thy life Depends on this day's daring, and its deeds And wounds alone, won in the onset's brunt, Secures my silence. Elliot. — You ^^Tojig me, noble lady. Lady Selon. — Away ! I'll hear thee not, nor let my ears List to the accents of a traitor's tongue. \_Eiil Elliot. Scene III. — An Apartment in King Edward's Tent. Enter Euward and Percy. Edward. — Well, my Lord Percy, thou hast made good speed — What say these haughty burghers to our clemency ? Percy. — In truth your grace, they are right haughty burghers. One wondrous civil gentleman proposed To write his answer on your servant's tongue — Using his sword as clerks might do a quill — Then thrust it on an arrow for a post-boy ! Edward. — .Such service he shall meet. What said their governor .' Perc!^.— Marry ! the old boy said I was no gentleman — And bid me read my answer in the eyes Of — Heaven defend me '. — such a squalid crew! One looked like death run from his winding-sheet — Another like an ague clotlied in rags — A third had something of the human form. But every bone was cursing at its fellow. Now, though I vow that I could read my fate In every damsel's eyes that kissed a moonbeam, I've yet to learn the meaning of the words Wrote on the eyeballs of his vellum-spectres. But the old man is henpecked ! Edward. — Prythee, Lord Percy, lay thy fool's tongue And tell thy meaning plainly. Percy. — Nay, pardon nie, your majesty ; I wot ■ Your servant is the fool his father made him, I And the most dutiful of all your subjects. Edward. — We know it, Percy. But what of his wife Percy. — Why, if the men but possess half her spirit. You may besiege these walls till you have counted The grey hairs on the child that's born next June. Edward. — And \\as this all .'' Percy. — Nay, there was one — a smooth-tongued oil man, A leader of the citizens ; and one Who measures out dissension by the rood ; He is an orator, and made a speech Against the Governor — the people murmured. And one or two cried out, " Behold an Anthony !" But he's a traitor, and I'd hang all traitors ! Edward.— Ha ! — then doth the devil. Disaffection, AVith his fair first-born. Treason, smooth our path. So we have friends within the citadel. Sent they no other answer .'' Percy. — I did expect me to have brought tne whole Like half-clothed beggars, bending at my iieeis. To crave your grace's succour ; but, behold. Ere I could bid them home for a clean shirt. That they might meet your majesty like Christians Out stepped her ladyship, and with a speech Poused up the whole to such a flood of feeling That I did well 'scape drowning i.n the shout Of Scotlf nd and Seton ! — Seton and Scotland I — Then did she turn and ask me — " Are you answered? Il TALES OF THE BORDERS. 85 1 said i was ! — and tliey did raise a cry Of Death or liherly !—' Ednard. — They shall have it — de.ilh in its fullest meaning. Haste, ply our cannon on the opening brcacli. 'i'orth ! — they attack the camp ! Now, drive them back, Break through their gate and guards. Till all be ours ! \_Exeiint. ScENK IV — TJie Ruviparts. Scots driven through the gales in conj'usion. Sir Alex — Wo to thee, Elliot ! tliis defeat is thine. Where was the caution ye but preached this morn, That ye should madly break our little band, And rusli on certain ruin ? Fie on thee, man ! riiat such an old head is so young a soldier ! Here, guard this breach, defend it to the last ; Henry shall be thy comrade. On, my friends ! Tliey cross the river, and the northern gate Will be their rext attack. Eltivt, [ayirff.]— '• Wo to thee, Elliot ! this defeat is thine !" So says our Governor ! 'Tis true ! — 'twas mine ! Though I have failed me in my firm, fixed purpose, Once more he's thrown revenge within my grasp ; And I will clutch it, clutch it firmly, too ; / guard the breach ! and with his son to assist me ! — The I'atcs grow kind ! The breach ! he said the breach/ And gave his son up to the power of Edward ! Henn/. — Why stand ye musing there ? Here lies your duty ! ' Elliot, iaside.2 — 'Tis true ! tis true ! vit/ duly does lie there ! Henry — Follow me, Elliot. See — they scale tlie walls! A moment lost, and they have gained the battlement. [Shouting. — Pkrcy and Followers ier.p upmt the battlement. Percij. — On ! followers, on ! — for Edward and for England Henry. — Have at thee, Percy, and thy followers, too ! For freedom and for Scotland ! On, Elliot ! on ! Wipe out the morning's shame. Elliot, [ui-ii/e.] — Have at thee, boy, for insult and revenge ! [Elliot strikes Henry's sword from his hand Henry — Shame on thee, traitor ! are we thus betrayed ! [Percy's Follov/ers make llF.tiRY prisoner. Elliot — Thank Heaven ! thank Heaven .' — one then is in their grasp ! A truce. Lord Percy. See thy prisoner safe. Ere his mad father sound a rescue — off! Thou «'ouldst not draw thy sword upon a friend ? [Sir Alexander, Richahd, Provost Ramsay. and others, enter hurriedly. Sir Alex. — Thanks, Elliot ! thanks ! You have done nobly ! — thanks ! Where is your comrade ! — speak— where is my son } Elliot. — Would he had been less valiant, less brave! Sir Alex. — What ! is he dead, my good, my gallant boy ! Where is his body ? shew me — where ? oh, where ? Jiichurd. — Where is my brother .' tell me how he fell. Elliot. — Could I with my best blood have saved the youth, Ye are all witnesses that I would have done it. Provost Ramsay. — Indeed, Jlr Elliot, if ye refer to me, I'm witness to naething o' the kind ; for it is my solemn opinion, a" the execution your sword did was as feckless as a winnle-strae. Sir Alex. — Where is my poor boy's bodv .' Elliot — I did not sav he died ! Richard — Nut dead! Sir Alex. — Not say he died i^ Elliot.— -See yonder group now hurrying to the camp And :houting as they run. — He is their prisoner ! '^Asiie.'] Feed re. friends, on that. n. t Sir Alex. — Cold-blooaed man ! thou never were a father '. 'i'he tyrant is ! — he knows a father's heart ! .And he will play the butcher's part with mina Each day inflicting on me many deaths. Knowing right well I am his twofold prisoner For on the son's head he'll repay, with interest. The \vrongs tiie father did him ! " He is their prisoner," saidst thou ? " Is their prisoner I" Thou hast no sons ' — none ! — I forgive tliee, Elliot ! Elliot. — Deeply I crave your pardon, noble sir ; I'ity for you, and love for Scotland, made me That I was loath to speak tiie unwelcome tidings; Ftsirful that to attempt his rescue now. Hud so cut off our few remaining troops, As seal immediate ruin. Provost Ramsay, [aside.'} — Preserve U3 a' ! hear th.'it. Wcel, to be sure, it's a true saj-ing, " Satan never lets hii saunts be at a loss for an answer !" [Exeunt. Scene V. — Apartment in Edward's Tenl. Enter Edward and Percy. Edward. — How fares it with these stubborn rebels now Do they still talk of death as of a bridal, While we protract the ceremony ? Percy. ^l learn, my liege, we've got two glorious allies. Two most right honourable gentlemen. Aiding the smooth-tongued orator — Disease and Famine have espoused our cause, And the said traitor, Elliot, is their oracle. Edward — Touching this man, we have advice from hira. In which he speaketh much concerns the wants And murmurings of the citizens ; he, too. Adds, they hold out expecting help from Douglas, And recommendeth that we skould demana The other son of Seton as a hostage, In virtue of a truce for fourteen days : This is his snare. The sons once in our power. Their father yields, or both hang up before him. Percy. — 'Tis monstrous generous of our friendly Scot ; And what return expects lie for his service ? Edward. — On giving up the father's head — his place. Percy. — I fear the lady will have his head first. Did you but see her eyes ! — I'd bet my coronet 'gainst our friar's cowl, Man wink not treason in his bedchamber But she detect it. Then her ears, again ; 'Sdeath ! she can hear the very sound of light As it does steal, i' the morning, through her curtains. Should OUT J'riend wear his head another week, His neck, I'll swear, is not as other men's are. Ednard. — How fares it with the son, our silent prisoner : Percy. — Poor soul, he leans his head against the wall. And stands with his arms thus — across his breast — Pale as a gravestone, gnashing at his teetli. And looking on his guards just as his mother would ! Edward. — 'Tis now the hour that Elliot has proposed To stir the townsmen up to mutiny. Take our conditions, add whate'er you please — Get but the son as hostage ! — get but that ! — And both shall die a thief's death if he yield not — He is a father, Percy — he's a father ! — The town is ours, and at an easy purchase. [Esii Percy. — And slie's a mother, Edward ! she's a mother ! Ay ! and a mother — I will pledge my earldom. And be but plain Hal Percy all my life, If she despise not gallows, death, and children, And earn for thee a crown of shame, my master ' In sooth, I am ashamed to draw my sword. Lest I should see my face in its bright blade : For sure my mother would not know her son, As lie goes blushing on his hanjrman's errand. 86 TALES OF THE BORDERS. ScKNE VI. — A Street. The Markd-Place. Enter Elliot and Populace. Elliot. — You heard, my townsmen, how our gracious Governor Did talk to us of honour ! — you all heard him ! Can any of you tell us, what is honour ? He drinks his wine, he feeds on beeves and capons — His table groans beneath a load of meats — His hounds, his liawks, are fed like Christian men ! He sleeps in a downy couch, o'erhung with purple — And these, all these are honourable doings ! He talks of liberty ! Is it then lilertt/ to be cooped up Within these prison walls, to starve from want. That we may have the liberty — mark it, my friends !— The wondrous liberty to call him Governor! Had ye the hearts or hands your fathers had, You'd to the castle, take the keys by force. And ope the gates to let your children live. Here comes your Provost, now appeal to him. Enter Provost Ramsay. — The people demand bread. Provost Ramsay. — Gie you food ! — your bairns dee wi' liunger ! — and ye maun hae bread ! It is easy saying, Gie ye ! but where am I to get it ? Do you think there's nae- body finds the grund o' their stamachs but yersels .'' I'm sure I hae been blind fastin' these four-and-twenty hours ! But wad ye no suffer this, and ten times mair, for liberty, and for the glory and honour of auld Scotland ! Elliot, \_to the people.'^ — He, too, can cant of liberty and honour ! Provost Ramsay. — I say, Mr Hypocrite ! it is my fixed and solemn opinion, that ye are at the bottom o' a' this mur- muring ! I ken ye're never at a loss for an answer ; and there is anither wee bit affair I wad just thank ye to redd up. Do ye mind what a fine story ye made in this very market-place the ither week, about getting ower the bed — and your wife's bosom being torn bare — and the blood gush- ing to your feet, and a' the rest o't .'' Do ye mind o' that, sir ? Do ye mind o' that ? I daresay, townsmen, ye've no forgot it ? Now, sir, it's no aboon ten minutes sine, that the poor creature, wha, according to your account, was dead and buried, got loose frae her confinement, and cam fleeing to me for protection, as a man and a magistrate, to save her frae the cruelty o' you, you scoundrel. Now, what say ye to that, sir } What say ye to that ? What do ye think o' your orator now, friends .'' Elliot. — 'Tis false, my friends — 'Tis but a wicked calumny, devised Against the only man who is your friend. Provost Ramsay. — Saftly, neebor, saftly ! have a care liow ye gie the lee to what I say — or, it is my solemn opinion, this bit sword o' my faither's may stap you frae giein it till anither. Enter Sir Alexander and Richard. Ye are weel come. Sir Alexander : here is Orator Elliot been makin' a harangue to the townsfolk; and ane cries for bread, and anither for meal — that it is my opinion I dinna ken what's to be done. Sir Alex. — What would you have ? what is it that you wish ? Would ye, for food, sweet friends, become all slaves ; And for a meal, that ye might surfeit on it. Give up your wives, your homes, and all that's dear. To the brute arms of men, who hold it virtue To heap their shame upon a fallen foe ! Would ye, that ye might eat, yet not be satisfied. Pick up the scanty crumbs around their camp, After their cattle and their dogs have left them ; Or would ye, for this favour, be content To take up arms against your countrymen ! — For this ! will fathers fight against their sons ? Sons 'gainst their fathers ? — brethren with each other .' Those who would wish it. may go o'er to Edward ! l^Sound of' French horns ii~ilhout. Provost Ramsay. — Ay, here comes mair proposals the sorry proposal them I I wish them and proposals an' a' were in the middle o' the Tweed. Enter Earl Percy and Attendants. Percy. — Save ye, my band of heroes ; by St Cutlibert, Your valorous deeds have wrought a miracle And turned my master's hatred into mercy; For, deeming it a sin that such brave fellows Should die a beggar's vulgar death from want. He doth propose to drop hostilities. And for two weeks vou may command our friendship; If, in that time, you gain no aid from Scotland, Renounce the country, and be Edward master ; But, should you gain assistance — why, then, we Will raise the siege, and wish you all good-by. Elliot, \_lo the people.'} — Urge the acceptance, friends, of these conditions. Omnes. — We all accept these terms. Sir Alex.— -It, is the people's wish, and I agree. Percy. — And you, in pledge of due performance, sir. Do give up this, your son, into our hands. In surety for your honour Sir Alex. — What ! my son ! Give him up, too— yield him into your power ! Have ye not one already ! — No ! no ! no ! I cannot, my Lord Percy — no, I cannot Part with him, too, and leave their mother childless ! Provost Ramsay.— Vi^eii. ye no tak me as a substitute. Lord Percy — I'm a man o' property and chief magistrate beside ; now, I should think, I'm the maist likely person. Percy.— GooA master magistrate, and man of property, I like thy heart, but cannot take thy person. Give up the youth ! or here must end my truce. Richard. — Fear not, my father. I will be their hostage, ] For Scotland's sake, and for my father's honour Sir Alex — My boy, my boy, and I shall lose you thus 1 What surety does cruel Edward give. That, keeping faith, he will restore my sons Back to my arms in safety ? Tell me, Percy, Gives he his honour as a man or king .'' Percy. — As both, I hold it. Sir Alex. — And wilt thou pledge thine ? Percy. — This is my master's business, and not mine. Sir Alex. — 'Tis an evasion, and I like it not. Richard — Farewell ! farewell, my father ! be the first To teach these men the virtue of self-sacrifice. Commend me to my mother. I will bear Both of your best loves to our Henry. Farewell! — Lend on, Lord Percv. \^Exeunl, Scene VII. — Apartment in Seton's House. Enter Sir Alexander, Provost Ramsay, H. Elliot, | and others. Sir Alex — Would Heaven that all go well with my de boys ! But there's that within me that does tear My bosom with misgivings. The very sun To me hangs out a sign of ominous gloom ! A spirit seems to haunt me, and the weight Of evil, undefined, and yet unknown, Doth, like a death's-hand, press upon my heart. Provost Ramsay Hoot, I wad fain think that the wa is past, and that there is nae danger o' onything happenin ' now. But do ye ken, sir, it is my fixed and solemn opinion, that, before onyth.ing really is gaun to happen till a body, or to ony o' their friends like, there is a kind o' something comes owre ane, a sort o' sough about the heart there, an' ye dinna ken what for Sir Alex. — Have ye beheld how tiey are raising bastionsi il TALES OF THE BORDERS. 87 Flanking fresh cannon, too, in front the to^vni, Gaining new reinforcements to their camp. And watching all our outgoings ? Do you think This looks as Edward meant to keep his faith ? I am betrayed, my friends — I am betrayed. Fear marcheth quickly to a father's breast — My sons are lost ! are lost ! Provost Ramsai/. — It's true that King Edward's prepara- tions and his getting sic fearfu additions to his army, doesna look weel. But what is a king but his word, mair than a man ! Hunter Servant. Servant — Lord Percy craves an audience with vour honour. Sir Alex. — Conduct him liither — 'Tis as I boded ! [_E.fil Servant — enter Percy. Vou look grave, my Lord. Perci/. — Faith, if I can look grave, to-day I should; None of my mother's children, gossips said, W'cre born with a sad face — but I could wish That I had never smiled, or that her maid Had been my mother, rather than that I Had been the bearer of this day's vile tidings. Sir Ale-T — 'Tis of my sons ! — what ! what of them, Lord Percy ? What of them ? Percy. — Yes, 'tis of your sons I'd speak !— They live — they're well ! — can you be calm to hear me ? I uoiild speak of your sons — Sir Alex— I feel !— I feel ! I understand you, Percy ! you would speak of my sons ! — Go, thrust thy head into a lion's den, JIurder its whelps, and say to it — Be calm! — Ue calm ! and feel a dagger in thy heart ! Twas kindly said ! — kind ! kind ! to say, Be calm! I'm calm. Lord Percy ! what — what of my sons ? Percy.— li I can tell thee, and avoid being choked ! — Choked with my shame and loathing — I wiU tell thee ; Cut each particular word of this black mission Is like a knife thrust in between my teeth. Sir Alex Torture me not, my Lord — but speak the worst — Jly ears can hear — my heart can hold no more ! Enter Lady Seton. Pcrci). — Hear them in as few words as I can tell it — Ed«-ard hath sworn, and he will keep his vow That, if to-day ye yield not up the town, Become his prisoners, break your faith with Scotland, Ye with the morning dawn shall see your sons Ilung up before your windows. He hath sworn it : And, by my earldom — faith as a Christian — Honour as a peer — he will perform it ! Lady Seton, \jaside2 — Ruler of earth and heaven ! a mother begs Thy counsel — thy protection ! Say I, mother! No voice again shall call me by that, name^ Both! both my boys! Sir Alex.—lla. ! my IMatilda ! Thou here ! Dry up thy tears, my love ! dry up thy tears ! I cannot sacrifice both sons and mother ! Alas, my country ! I must sell thee dearly I Sly faith — mine honour too! — take — take them, Percy! I am a father, and my sons shall live ! — Sh;xll live! and I shall die! \_UnsheafIiing kit srvord. Lady Seton. — Hold ! hold, my husband — save thy life and honour ! Thou art a father — am not I a mother ? Knowest thou the measure of a mother's love? Think ye she yearns not for her own heart's blood? Yet I will live! and thoii .':halt live, my husband I We will not rob this Edward of his shame Write — I will dictate as my sons had done it^ I know their nature, for 'twa.s I who gave it. .Sir Alex. — Thou wait'st an answer, Percy — I will give it« [_Sits down to nrilt. No — I cannot, Matilda. Lady Seton. — Write thus : — " Edward may break his faith, but Seton cannot ! Edward may earn disgrace, hut .Seton honour ! His sons are in your power ! D« ! — do as ye list !" [//c .flarts up in atiilation. Sir Alex. — No, no ! it cannot he — say not my sons ! Lord Perc}', let your tyrant Uike my life ! Torture me inchmeal ! — to the last I'll smile. And bless him for his mercy ! — but spare, oh, spare my children ! Provost Ramsay. — Really, Sir Alexander, I dinna ken hoo to advise ye. To think o' gien up the toun to sic a monster o' iniquity, is entirely out o' the question — ^just impossible a'thegither ; and, to think o' the twa dear brave bairns sufferin', is just as impossible as to flee in the air. I tell ye what, my lord, and it is mv opinion, it is a very fair proposal, (if naething but deaths will satisfy your King,) I, for ane, will die in their stead — their faither will for anither ; and is there ane amang you, my townsmen, that winna do the same, and let your names be handed down as heroes to your bairns' bairns, and the last generation ? Percy. — Thou hast a noble heart, old honest Scotsman ; But I cannot accept your generous offer. Lady Seton. — Mark this, my husband ! — That rve may still be parents — That we might have two sons to live and sccrn us — ■ Sell country — honour — all — and live disgraced : Think ye my sons would call a traitor, father — They drew their life from yne — from me they drew it — And think ye I would call a traitor, husband! — What ? would ye have them live, that every slave, In banquet or in battle, might exclaim — " For you, ye hinds, your fatiier sold his country !" Or, would ye have them live, that no man's daughter Would stoop so low as call your sons her husband ! Would ye behold them hooted, hissed at. Oft, as they crossed the street, by every urchin ! Would ye your sons — your noble sons — met this. Rather than die for Scotland ! If ye do love them. Love them as a man ! Sir Alex. — 'Tis done ! my country, thou hast made me bankrupt ! And I am childless ! [^^xeunt. Scene VIII. — T/ie River, and Boat. Time, Midnight Enter one habited as a Friar. Friar. — 'Tis now thick midnight. All around me sleep. And not a star looks from the curtained heaven. The very sentinels cease to pac6 their round, And stand in calm security. I'll brave them. AVhat though the bridge be guarded, and the river Rush like a tiger ? — love has no such fears. And Heaven is stronger than its waters ! [_A bell tolls slowly. Ha ! that slow-tongued bell, that speaks of death, Falls on my ears as would a solid substance ! Pressing my heart down ! Oh, cruel speed ! Already they prepare their execution ! But they shall live, or 1 with them shall die ! Thou, who beholdest me, and lookest through The darkness of Thy heavens upon Thy suppliant, Let not a tyrant stain Thy e.irth with blood — The blood of innocence ! Thou, who art mercy, Spare a father's tears ! Thou, who art love. Look on a mother's anguish ! Thou, who art justice. Save .' oh, save their children ! Thou, who art power 88 TALES OF THE BOEDEER Strengthen my liands to-niglit. \^Rises. Now may an angel's hand direct my skiff Straight to their camp, till with one blow I strike Their freedom and my country's i \^He leaps into the boat and pushes off. Scene IX — The English Camp. A Jire tn the distance. Enter Henry and RrcHARD, fettered and guarded. Henry. — Would it were morning, and the hour were come, For still my heart misgives me, lest our parents Do, in fond weakness, save us by dishonour ! Richard — Rather than purchase life at such a jjrice, And have my father sell his faith for me. And sell bis country, I would rather thou, My brother in my birth and in my death, Should be my executioner ! We know them better ! Henrj). — Now I seem old and weary of this life, So joy I in our death for Scotland's sake, For tills death will so wed us to our country We shall be old in years to all posterity ! And it will place a blot on Edward's name, That time may blacken, but can ne'er efface ' Richard. — Sly heart, too, beats as light as if to-morrow Had been by young love destined for my bridal ; Yet oft a tear comes stealing do\vn my cheek, When I do think me of our mother, Henry ! Henri/. — Oh, speak not of our parents ! or my heart AVill burst ere morning, and from the tjTant rob His well-earned infamy. Richard. — Oh ! I must speak of them — They now will wander weeping in their chamber, Or from their window through the darkness gaze. And stretch their hands and sigh towards the camp. Then, when the red east breaks the night away — Ah ! what a sight will meet their eyes my brother ! Henry — My brother ! — oh, my brother ! Enter Friar. Guard. — -Who would pass here } Friar. — A friend ! a friend ! — a messenger of mercy ! Guard. — Nay, wert thou mercy's self you cannot pass. Friar. — Refuse j-e then your prisoners their confessor .■' Guard. — Approach not, or ye die ! Friar. — Would ye stretch forth your hand 'gainst Hea- ven's anointed ? Guard Ay ! 'gainst the Pope himself, if he should thwart me. Friar Mercy ye have not, neither shall ye find it. [_Spriiigs forward and stabs him. — Approaches Richard and Henry, and unbinds their fetters. Friar. — In chains as criminals ! Ye are free, but speak not. Richard. — Here, holy Father, let me kneel to thank thee. Henry. — And let me hear but my deliverer's name, That my first prayer may waft it to the skies. Lady Siton. — Kneel not, nor thank me here. Tliere's need of neither — But be ye silent, for the ground has ears, Nor let it hear your footsteps. [^She approaches the f re ; kindles a torch andfreit the camp. He?ir!i. — Behold, my brother, he has fired the camp ! Already see the flames ascend around him. Friar Now ! now, my country ! here thou art avenged ! Fly mth me to the beach ! pursuit is vain ! — Thou, Heaven, hast heard me ! thou art merciful ! [^Exit. Scene X. — Aparlment in Seton's House. Sir Alex. — Oh, what is honour to a father's heart .? Can it extinguish Nature — soothe his feelings — Or make the small still voice of conscience dumb ? My sons ! my sons ! — Though ye should hold me guiltless, there's a tongue Within me whispers, Em your murderer ! Ah ! my Jlatilda ! hadst thou been less noble. We both had been less wretched ! But do I, To hide my sin, place t on the mother s heart ! Though she did hide the mother from men's eves. Now, crushed by woes, she cannot look on mine. But, locked in secret, weeps her soul away. That it may meet her children's ! I alone. Widowed and childless, like a blasted oak Reft of its root and branches, must be left For every storm to howl at ! |[Elliot enters with a dapger Ah, my sons ! Could anguish rend my heartstrings, I should not Behold another sun rise on my misery ! Elliot, [springing upon him.~\ — By heavens, mine enemy, I swear thou shalt not ! [ They struggle. Shouting without. Enter Friar and Seton's Sons, Provost Ramsay. Friar springs forward. Friar. — Down ! traitor, down ! [Stabs Elliot. Sir Alex. — Sly sons ! — my sons ! — Angels of mercy, do you mock my sight ! My boys ! — my boys ! — Provost Ramsay. — Save us a' ! save us a' ! — callants, come to my arras too ! Here's an hour o' joy ! This, in my solemn opinion, is what I ca' li>-in' a lifetime in the twink- lin' o' an ee ! And what think ye. Sir Alexander ! The English camp is a' in a bleeze, and there are they fleeing awa helter-skelter, leaving everything behind them. Sir Alex. — What ! — they fly too ! — thank Heaven ! thank Heaven ! My cup of joy o'erflows, and floods my heart Jlore than my griefs ! Richard. — 'Tis true, my father- To this, our unknown saviour, do we owe Our life and yours ! 'twas he, too, seized the torch. And bid the bonfire blaze to Scotland's freedom ! Sir Alex. — Forgive me, reverend stranger, if tliat I, In the delirium of a parent's joy, O'erlooked the hand that sav'd me— > Kneel, my sons. And with thy father, at this strangers feet. Pour out our thanks, and beg his blessing also. [They kneel around the supposed Friar, rjho casts o£ the disguise, and is discovered to be their mother. Lady Scton. — A mother in her children's cause, fear? nothing, And needs not thanks — A woman, in her country's cause, Can dare what man dare ! [They start up Sir Alex. — What ! — my Matilda ! Richard. — My mother ! Henry. — Ha ! my mother ! Lady Scton. — Joy, joy, my sons — your mother's done her duty ! And joy, my husband, we have saved our honour. Sir Alex. — iMatilda, thou hast ta'en my heart anew. And with it, too, my words ! Provost Ramsay. — ^The like o' this! — I may weel say what, in the universal globe, tempted me to be a bachelor ! [Exeunt. Note In the foregoing Dramatic Tale, I have not followed the popu- lar tradition that the' son's of Setou were executed, .as the story is impro- bable, and is not countenanced by contemporary history. A skull however, to wliich tradition gives a marrellous historj-, and which u affirmed to be that of one of the Setons, has been for some years in i>o» session of tlic wTiter. W I L S O N'S 5l}ttitovtcaL arratJilt'onarg, CTtD Sma2(nati6« TALES OF THE BORDERS. LOTTERY HALL. I HAD slept on the preceding night at Brampton ; and, with- out entering so f;ix into particulars as to say whether I took the road towards Carlisle, Newcastle, Annan, or to the south, suffice it to say that, towards evening, and just as I was again beginning to think of a restingplace, I overtook a man sauntering along the road with his hands behind his back. A single glance informed me that he was not one who earned his bread by the sweat of his brow ; but the same glance also told me that he had not bread enough and \o spare, ilis back was covered -with a well-worn black coat, the fashion of which belonged to a period at least twelve years preceding the time of which 1 write. The other p;irts of his outward man harmonized with his coat so far as apparent age and colour went. His head was covered with a low-crowned, broad-brimmed hat; and on his nose he wore a pair of silver-mounted spectacles. To my mind he presented the picture of a poor scholar, or of gentility in ruins. The lappels of his coat were tinged a little, but only a little, with snuff — which Flee-up, or Beggar's Jhvrjn, as some call it, is very apt to do. In his hands, also, which, as I have said, were behind his back, he held his snuff-box. It is probable that he imagined he had returned it to his pocket after taking a pinch; but he appeared from his very saunter to be a meditative man, and an idea having shot across his brain while in the act of snuff-taking, the box was unconsciously retained in his hand and placed be- hind his back. Whether the hands are in the way of con- templation or not 1 cannot tell, for I never think, save when my hand holds a pen ; yet I have observed that to carry the Lands behind the back is a favourite position with walking thinkers. I accordingly set down the gentleman with the broad-brimmed hat and silver-mounted spectacles to be a walking thinker ; and it is more than probable that I should QOt have broken in upon his musings, (for I am not in the habit of speaking to strangers,) had it not been that I ob- served the snulT-bos in his hands, and that mine required replenishing at the time. It is amazing and humiliating to think how uncomfortable, fretful, and miserable the want of a pinch of snuff can make a man ! — how dust longs for dust ! I had been desiring a pinch for an hour, and here it was presented before me like an unexpected spring in the wilderness. Snuffers are like freemasons — there is a sort of brotherhood among thera. The real snuffer will not give a pinch to the mere dipper into other people's boxes, but he will never refuse one to the initiated. Now, I took the measure of the man's mind at a single glance. I discovered something of the pedant in his very stride — it was thought- ful, measured, mathematical; — to say nothing of the spec- tacles — orof his beard, which was of a dark colour, and which had not been visited by the razor for at least two days. I therefore accosted him in the hackneyed but pompous lan- gu.age attributed to Johnson — '' Sir," said I, " permit me to emcree the summits of my 12. Vol I. *• digits in your pulveriferous utensil, in order to excite a grate- ful titillation in my olfactory nerves I" " Cheerfully, sir," returned he, handing me the box, lor which, by the way, he first groped in his waistcoat pocket. " I know what pleasure it is — ' naurihus aliriuid haurire.'" I soon discovered that my companion, to whom a pinch of snuff had thus introduced me, was an agreeable and well- informed man. About a mile before us lay a village in which I intended to take up my quarters for the night, and near the village was a house of considerable dimensions, the appearance of which it would puzzle me to describe. The architect had evidently set all orders at defiance— it was a mixture of the castle and the cottage— a heap of stones con- fusedly put together. Around it; was a quantity of trees, poplars and Scotch firs, and they appeared to have been planted as promiscuously as the house was built. Its ap- pearance excited my curiosity, and I inquired of my com- panion what it was called, or to whom it belonged. " "Wliy, sir," said he, " people generally call it Lottery Hall, but the original proprietor intended that it should have been named Luck's Lodge, lliere is rather an inter- esting story connected with it, if you had time to hoar it." " If the story be as amusing as the appearance of the house," added I, " if you have time to tell it, I shall hear it." I discovered that my friend with the silver-mounted spec- tacles kept what he termed an " Establishment for Young Gentlemen" in the neighbourhood, that being the modernised appellation for a boarding-school ; though, judging from his appearance, I did not suppose his establishment to be over- filled ; and havmg informed him that I intended to remain for the night at the village inn, I requested him to accom- pany me, where, after I had made obeisance to a supper, which was a duty that a walk of forty miles strongly prompt- ed me to perform, I should, " enjoying mine ease " like the good old bishop, gladly hear his tale of Lottery Hall. Therefore, having reached the inn, and partaken of supper and a glass together, after priming each nostril with a sepa- rate pinch from the box aforesaid, he thus began : — Thirty years ago, there dwelt within the village a man named Andrew Donaldson. He was merely a day-labourer upon the estate of the Squire to whom the village belongs ; but he was a singular man in many respects, and one whose character very few were able to comprehend. You will be surprised when I inform you that the desire to become a Man of FAsniox, haunted this poor day-labourer hke his shadow in the sun. It was the disease of his mind. Now, sir, before proceedmg with my ttorj', I shall make a few observations on this plaything and ruler of the worid called Fashion. I would describe Fashion to be a deformed littlo monster with a chameleon skin, bestriding the shoulders of Dublic opinion. Though weak in itself, it has gradually usurped a degree of power that is well nigh irresistible ; and this tyranny prevails, in various forms, but with equal cruelty, orer the whole habitable earth. Like a rushing stream, it 90 TALES OF THE BOEDERS. bears along all ranks and conditions of men, all avocations and professions, and often principles. Fashion is wiihal a notable courtier, bowing to the strong and flattering the powerful. Fashion is a mere whim, a conceit, a foible, a toy, a folly, and withal an idol whose worshippers are uni- versal. Wherever introduced, it generally assumes the fami- liar name of Habit ; and many of your great and philosophi- cal men, and certain ill-natured old women, who appear at parties in their wedding-gowns, and despise the very name of Fashion, are each the slaves of sundry habits which once bore the appellation. Should Fashion miss the skirts of a man's coat, it is certain of seizing him by the beard. It is humiliating to the dignity of immortal beings, possessed of capabilities the extent of which is yet imknown, to confess that many of them, professing to be Christians, Jews, Maho- medans, or Pagans, are merely the followers in the stream of Fashion ; and are Christians or Jews simply because such a religion was after the fashion of their fathers or country. During the present century, it has been the cause of much infidelity and freethinking, or rather, as is more frequently the case with its votaries, of no thinking. This arose from ■wisdom and learning being the fashion ; and a vast number of brainless people — who could neither be out of the service of their idol, nor yet endure the plodding labour and severe study necessary for the acquiring of wisdom and learning, and many of them not even possessing the requisite abilities — in order to be thought at once wise men and philosophers, they pronounced religion to be a cheat, futurity a bugbear, and themselves organic clods. Fashion, indeed, is as capri- cious as it is tyrannical ; with one man it plays the infidel, and with another it runs the gauntlet of Bible and missionary meetings or benevolent societies. It is like the Emperor of Austria — a compound of intolerable evil and much good. It attempts to penetrate the mysteries of metaphysics, and it mocks the calculations of the most sagacious Chancellor of the Exchequer. At the nod of Fashion, ladies change their gloves, and the children of the glove-makers of Worcester go without dinners. At its call they took the shining buckles from their shoes, and they walked in the laced boot, the sandaled slipper, or the tied shoe. Individually it seemed a small matter wliether shoes were fastened with a buckle or with ribbon ; but the small-ware manufacturers found a new harvest, while the buckle-makers of Birmingham and their families, in thousands, were driven through the country to beg, to steal, to coin, to perish. This was the work of Fashion, and its effects are similar to the present hour. The cry of distress is frequently raised against bad government, assuming it to be the cause ; when fickle Fashion has alone produced the injury. In such a matter, government was unable to prevent, and is unable to relieve — Fashion defying all its enactments, and the ladies being the sole governors in the case. For, although the world rules man and his busi- ness, and Fashion is the ruler of the world, yet the ladies, though the most devoted of its servants, are at the same time the rulers of Fashion. This last assertion may seem a contradiction, but is not the less true. With simplicity and the graces, Fashion has seldom exhibited any incUnation to cultivate an acquaintance ; now, the ladies being, in their very nature, form, and feature the living representatives of these virtues, I am the more surprised that they should be the especial patrons of Fashion, seeing that its efforts are more directed to conceal a defect by making it more deformed, than to lend a charm to elegance or an adornment to beauty. The lady of fortune follows the tide of Fashion till she and her husband are within sight of the shores of poverty. The portionless maiden presses on in its wake, till she finds herself immured in the everlasting garret of an old maid. Then comes the animal of the male kind, whoso coat is cut, whose hair is curled and his very cravat tied according to the fashion. Away with such shreds and patches of effeminacy I But the fashion for which Andrew Donaldson, the day-labourer, sighed, aimed at higher things than this. It grieved him that he was not a better dressed man and a greater man than the squire on whose estate he earned his daily bread. He was a hard and severe man in his own house — at his frown his wife was submissive and his children trembled. His family consisted of his wife, three sons, Paul, Peter, and Jacob ; and two daughters, Sarah and Kebecca. Though all scriptural names, they had all been so called after his own relations. His earnings did not exceed eight or nine shillings a-week ; but even out of this sum he did not permit the one half to go to the support of his family — and that half was doled out most reluctantly, penny by penny. For twenty years, he had never entrusted his wife with the management or the keep- ing of a single sixpence. With her, of a verity, money was but a tight, and that generally in the smallest coins of the realm. She seldom had an opportunity of contemplating the gracious countenance of his Majesty ; and when she had, it was invariably upon copper. If she needed but a penny to complete the cooking of a dinner, the children had to run for it to the fields, the quarry, or the hedge-side, where their father might be at work ; and then it was given with a lecture against their mother's extravagance ! Extravagance indeed ! to support seven mouths for a week out of five shillings 1 I have spoken of dinners, and I should tell you that bread was seen in the house but once a day, and that only of the coarsest kind. Potatoes were the staple com- modity, and necessity taught Mrs. Donaldson to cook them in twenty different ways ; and, although butcher meat was never seen beneath Andrew's roof, with the exception of pork of their own feeding, in a very small portion, once a week, yet the kindness of the cook in the Squire's family, who occasionally presented her with a jar of kitchen-fee, enabled her to dish up her potatoes in modes as various and palatable to the hungry, as they were creditable to her own ingenuity and frugality. Andrew was a man of no expen- sive habits himself; he had never been known to spend a penny upon liquor of any kind, but once, and that was at the christening of his youngest child, who was baptised in the house ; when, it being a cold and stormy night, and the minister having far to ride, and withal being labouring under a cold, he said he would thank Andrew for a glass of spirits. The frugal father thought the last born of his flock had made an expensive entry into existence ; but handing twopence to his son Paul he desired him to bring a glass of spirits to his reverence. The spirits were brought in a milk -pot ; but a milk-pot was an unsightly and an unseemly vessel out of which to ask a minister to drink. The only piece of crystal in the house was a footless wine-glass, out of which a grey linnet drank, and there was no alternative but to take it from the cage, clean it, pour the spirits into it, and hand it, bottomless as it was, to the clergyman — and this was done accordingly. For twenty years, this was all that Andrew Donaldson was known to have spent on ale, wine, or spirits ; and as, from the period that his children had been able to work, he had not contributed a single sixpence of his earnings towards the maintenance of his house, it was generally be- lieved that he could not be worth less than two or three hundred pounds. Where he kept his money, however, or who was his banker, no one could tell. Some believed that he \Yas saving in order to emigrate to Canada and purchase land ; but this was only a surmise. For weeks and months he was frequently wont to manifest the deepest anxiety. His impatience was piteous to behold ; but why he was anxi- ous and impatient no one could tell. These fits of anxiety were as frequently succeeded by others of the deepest de- spondency ; and during both, his wife and children feared to TALES OF THE BOUDEllS. 97 took ill Ilia fnc", to rpf.'ilc oi r.i.ivc m liis jircsonco. As liin desporiilc'iicy uas wont to wvixr away, his ])cnurii)mncss in till" same liegrcc iiicrcascil , ami iit surli prriixls a priiiiy for the most lu-ccsxiiry puiposo was obstiiiatclv nt'u-iMl. Such wiTC ihi! hir aii sort of scream, his children started to their feet. ' (Jo !" said he, stamping his foot, and placing the money in I'.rr hand — " go ! I order you." They knew his temper, that he was not to be thwarted, and Ilebccca obeyed. He continued to walk across the floor with the s.iiue stride of importance ; he addressed his sons as Master Donaldson, ^I.ister Peter, and Master Jacob • and Sarah, who was the best of the famiiv, as Miss DonaMson. He walked up to his wife, and, with a degree of kindness, such as his family bad never witnessed before, he clapped her on the shoulder, and said — " Catherine, you know the proverb, that ' they who look for a silk gown always get a sleeve o't" — I h.ivc long looked for one to you, and now ' I'll tnak yc I.idy o' tlicm a' !"* Ard. in his own unmusic;d way, he sang a line or two from the "' Lass o Cowrie." Poor Mrs Donaldson trembled from the crown of the head to the sole of the foot. Her looks pl.ainly told that she feared her husband had " gone beside himself." He resumed his march across the floor, stately as an admiral on the quarter-deck, when Rebecca entered with the brandy and the wine. " What!" said he, again stamping his foot, " did I not order you to order JoI:n Hell to Siricl the bottles?" Itobecea shook — but he took them from her hand, and ordered her to bring the glasses! 1 have already noticed the p,aucity of glass vessels at Kcbccci's baptism. They were not more numerous now ; and even the footless glass, out of which the linnet drank, had long ago, with the linnet, pone the w.iy of all flesh and of all glass ; and Rebecca plared a white teacup, scored and seamed with age, (there were but four in the house,) upon the table. " What! a cup! a cup!" exclaimed he, stamping his foot more Tehemently th.an before — " did I nolordcr you to bring glasses! Jle! — me! — Mister Donaldson drink wine out of a teacup!* And he dashed the cup behind the fire. " O I'aul : Paul !" cried Jlrs Don.aldson, addressing her first-bora, " is yer failher crazed ! — will ye no baud liim ! — shill we send for the doctor, a strait-jacket, or the mini- ster ^■* i'aul was puazled : his &thcr did not csactly s;cn) mad ; hut his conduct, his OTtravaganco, wai so unlike nnythlns h<- bad ever seen in him bcfire, that he was troubled on hie aceouiit, and he rose to reason with him. " Keep your seat, Master Donaldson," s.iid his father, with the dignity of :i duk' — '' Keep your seat, sir ; your father if not mad, but before a week go round, the hcst hat in the viil.ige shall be lifted to him." Paul knew not what to think; but he had been (nught to I fear iiiid to obey his f.itlu-r, and he obeyed him now. Aiiflrew again liamled money to his daughter, and ordered her to go and purchase six tumblers ami six wine glasses. Mrs Donaldson wrung her hands ; she no longer doubled that her husb.ind was " beside himself." The crystal, however, was brought, the wine and the brandy were sent round, and the day-labourer made merry with his children. On the Monday following, he went not out info the fields to his work iis usual ; but arraying himself in his Sund.aj attire, he took leave of his family, saying he would be absent for a week. This w.as as unaccountable as his sending for the wine, the bnmdy, and the crystal, for no man attendc I ills employment more faithfully than Andrew Donaldson For twenty years he bad never been absent from his work a single day, Sund.ays and F;ist-days alone excepted. His children communed together, and his wife shed tears ; she was certain that something liad gone wrong about his bend ; yet, strange as his actions were, his conversation w.-\s ration.al ; and though still imperious, he manifested more affection for them all than he had ever done before. They did not d.ire to question him as to the change that had come over him, or whether he was going ; for at all times his mildest answer to all inquiiics was, that '• fools and bairns should never see things half done." IIo departed, therefore, without telling why or whither, simply intimating that he would return within seven days, leaving his family in distress and bewil- derment. Sunday came, but no tidings were heard regarding him. ^yitll much heaviness of heart and anxiety of spirit, his sons and daughters proceeded to the church ; and while tliej% with utliers, yet stood in groups around the churcbyard,a stranger gentleman entered. His step was slow ami soldier-like. lie carried a silken umbrella to screen himself from the sun, for they were then but little used as a protection from rain; few had at that time discovered that they could be so applied. His head was covered with a hat of the most fashionable shape. His hair was thickly powdered, and gathered up behind in a queue. His coat, his vest, his breeches, were of silken velvet, and the colour thereof was the kingly purple — moreover, the knees of the last mentioned article were fastened with siiveibucklc!*, which shone as stirs as the sun fell upon them. His stockings also were of silk, white as the driven snow ; and, partly covering these, he w ore a pair of boots of the kind called Hetsian. In his left hand, as I have said, he carried an umbrelln, and in his right he here a silver-mounted cane.* The people gazed with wonder :i3 the strang" " Whoy, Zur ! " replied the thatcher, " I he's the IMayor !" * Andrew looked at him. " Heaven help us !" thought he — 'jou the IMayor! — you! — a thatcher! — well may I be a • Thia wcture also Is ^infro from lift. memljcr of parliament !" But, witnout r.gain addressing his worship, he hastened back to his friends; and with them he was made sensible, that, .although he had given a considera- tion for the borough, yet, as opposition had started — as the power of the patron was not omnipotent — as the other can- didate was bleeding freely — as he was keeping open houses and giving yellow gooseberries — there was nothing for it but that JNfr Donaldson should do the same. " But, oh ! how much will it require .'" again inquired the candidate, in a tone of anxiety. " Oh, merely a thousand or two !" again coolly rejoined Captain Edwards. " A thousand or two !" ejaculated Jlr Donaldson, for his thousands were becoming few. But, like King Richard, he had " set his fate upon a cast," and he " would stand the haz.ard of the die." As to his landed qualification, if elected, the patron was to provide for that ; and, after a few words from his friend Edwards, " Richard was himself again" — his fears vanished — the ocean of his ambition opened before him — he saw golden prospects for himself and for his family — he could soon, when elected, redeem a few thousands; and he bled, he opened houses, he gave gooseberries as his oppo- nent did. But the great, the eventful, the nomination day arrived MrDonaldson — Andrew Donaldson, thelabourer, that was — stood forward to make his speech — the speech that his son Paul, student in the University of Edinburgh, had written. He got through the first sentence, in the tone and after the manner of the village clergyman, whom he had attended for forty years; but there he stuck fast; and of all his son Paul had written — short, sententious, patriotic as it was — he remem- bered not a single word. But, though gravelled from forgct- fulness of his son's matter, and though he stammered, hesi- tated, and tried to recollect himself for a few moments, yet he had too high an idea of his own consequence to stand completely still. No man who has a consequential idea of his own abilities will ever positively stick in a speech. I remember an old schoolmaster of mine used to say, that a public speaker should regard his audicnceassnmanj' cabbage- stocks.* But he had never been a public speaker, or he would have said no such thing. Such an advice m.ay do very well for a precentor to a congregation; but, as regards an ora'or addressing a multitude, it is a different matter. No, sir; the i man who speaks in public must neither forget his audience ' nor overlook them ; be must regard them as his equals, but none of them as his superiors in intellect ; he should regard every man of them as capable of understanding and appre- ciating what he may say; and, in order to make himself un- derstood, he should endeavour to bring his language and his imagery down to every capacity, rather tluin permit them to go on stilts or to take wings. Some silly people imagine that what they call fine language, flowery sentences, and splendid metaphors, are oratory. Stuff! — stuff! Where do you find them in the orations of the immortal orators of Greece or Rome.'' They used the proper language — they used effective language — " Thoughts that breathed and words that burned ;" but (hey knew that the key of eloquence must be applied not to the head but to the heart. But, sir, I digress from the speech of Mr Donaldson. (Pardon me — I am in the habit of illustrating to my boys, and dissertation is my faxilt, or rather I should say my habit.) "Well, sir, as I have said, he stuck fast in the speech which liis son had written ; but, a^ I have also said, he had too high an opinion of himself to stand long without saj-ing something. When left to himself, in what he did say, I am afraid he " betrayed his birth and breeding ;" for there was loud laughter in the hall, and cric! of hear him ! hear him ! But the poll commenced ; th* ♦ Tills, T believe, \r.is the ndvicc to his students of a late iu tlio Uuivorsitv of LlJmUuriklti Pjefcn. TALES OF THE BORDERS 03 otlipr c.ir.diil.itc brnufjlil vofcrs trom fivo Imnilroil miles "iiifanco — from cast, >vost, noiih, and soutli ; I'rom Scothiiul, Iri'liiiiil, aiul the Coiitliifiit. He polled a vole at every tliree proclamations, wlien INIr Donaldson liad no more to bring forward ; and on the fourtecniii day lie defeated liiinby a majority of ONI'' ! The ri<,'ht worshipful thateher dechired tliat the cleetion had fallen on tiie opposing candivalked with his silver cane, and though it was known (and lie look care to make it known) that he had polled within one of being a member of iiarliament — still the Sr|uire did not acknowledge him — his old aci|uaintanccs did not lift thcif hats to him — but all scorned certain that he wiis coining down " 1)1/ the run" (I think that was the slang or provin- cial phrase they used,) to his old level. They perceived that he kept no horses now — save one to work the twenty acres around the lodge ; for he had ]iloughed up and sown with barley, and let out as potato ground, what he at f.rst had laid out as a park. This spoke volumes. 'J'hey aho saw that he had pMted with his coach, that he ke[it hut one servant, and that servant told tales in the village. He w.ig laughed at by his neighbours, and those who had been his fellow-labourers ; and with a Sardonic chuckle, they were wont to speak of his house as " tite Member o I'ailiiinicnI't.' I have said that I would say no more of poor Rebecca ; but the tongues of the women in the village dwelt also on her. But she died, and in the same hour died also a new-born child of the villain Edwards. Peter had left his father's house and commenced thepro- fessiim of an artist, in a town about twenty miles from this. Mr Donaldson was now humbled. It was his intention. with the sorry remnant of his fortune, to take a farm for Jacob ; but, oh ! Jacob had bathed in a sea of ^nce, and tliu bitter waters of adversity could not wash out the pollution it had left behind it. Into his native village he carried tne habits he had acquired or witnessed beneath the cerulean skies of Italy, or amidst the dark-eyed daughters of France. Shame followed his footsteps. Yea, although the Squire despised Jlr Donaldson, his son, ayouth of nineteen, became the boon companion of Jacob. They held midnight orgies together. Jacob initiated the Squireling into the mysteries of Paris and Rome, of Naples and IMunich, whence he wa.s about to proceed. But I will not dwell upon their short career. Extravagance attended it, shame and teais follow - cd it. Andrew Donaldson no longer possessed the means of up- holding his son in folly and wickedness. Ho urged him to settle in the world — to take a farm while he had the power left of placing him in it; but Jacob's sins pursued liim- He fled from his father's house, and enlisted in a marching regiment about to embark for the East Indies. No more was heard of him for many years, until a letter arrived from one of his comrades announcing that he had fallen at Corunna. To defray the expenses which his son Jacob had brought upon him, Mr Donaldson had not only to part with the small remnant that was left him of his fifteen thousand, but to take a heavy mortgage upon Lottery Hall. Again he was compelled to put his hand to the spade and to the plough ; and his wife, deprived of her daughters, again be. came her own servant. Sorrow, shame, and disappointment gnawed in his heart. His garments of pride, now wore threadb.ire, were cut off for ever. The persecution, the mockery of his neighbours increased. They asked each other " if they had seen the Jlember o' Parliament wi' the spade in his hand again ?" They quoted the text, " A haughty spirit goes before a f;dl ;" and they remembered passages of the preacher's lecture against pride and vanity on the day when Andrew appeared in his purple coat. He became a solitary m;m ; and, on the face of this globe which we inhabit, there existed no^ a more miserable being than Andrew Donaldson. Peter was generally aamitted to be a young man of great talents, and bade fair to rise to eminence in his profession aa an artist. There was to be an exhibition of the works oi living artists in Edinburgh ; and Peter went through to it, taking with him more than a dozen pictures, on all subjects and of ail iizee. He Lad iandscapes, sea pieces, historical D6 TALES OF THE BORDERS. paintings, portraits, fish, game, and compositions, tlie group- ing of which would have done credit to a master. In size, they were from five feet square to five inches. His hrother Paul, who was still at the college, and who now supported himself by private teaching, was surprised when one morn- in"- Peter arrived at his lodgings, with three cadies at his back, bearing his load of pictures. Paul welcomed him with open arms; for he was proud of his brother; he had admired his early talents, and had heard of the progress he had made in his art. With a proud heart and a delighted eye, Peter unpacked his paintings and placed them round the room for the inspection of his brother; and great was his brother's admiration. "What may he their value, Peter.''" inquired Paul. " Between ourselves, Paul," replied Peter, " I would not part with the lot under a thousand guineas !" " A thousand guineas !" ejaculated the student in sur- prise ; " do you say so .''" " Yes, I say it," answered the painter with importance. " Look ye, Paul — observe this bridal party at the altar — see the blush on the bride's cheek, the joy in the bridegroom's eye — is it not natural ? And look at the grouping ! — observe the warmth of the colouring, the hreadth of effect, the depth of shade, the freedom of touch ! Now, tell me can- didly as a brother, is it not a gem .''" " It is certainly beautiful," answered Paul. " I tell you what," continued the artist — " though I say it who should not say it, I have seen worse things sold for a thousand guineas." " You don't say so !" responded the astonished student, and he wished that he had been an artist instead of a scholar. " I do," added Peter; " and now, Paul, what do you think I intend to do with the money which this will bring ?" " How should I know, brother }" returned the other. " Why, then," said ho, " I am resolved to pay off the mortgage on our father's property, that the old man may spend the remainder of his days in comfort." Paul wept, and taking his "brother's hand said, " And if you do, the property shall be yours, Peter." " Never, brother !" replied the other — " rather than rob you of your birthright, I would cut my hand off." The pictures were again packed up, and the brothers went out in quest of the Secretary to the exhibition, in order to have them submitted to the Committee for admission. The Secretary received them with politeness ; he said he was afraid that they could not find room for so many pieces as Blr Donaldson mentioned, for they wished to give everyone a fair chance ; hut he desired him to forward the pictures, and he would see what could he done for them. The paint- ings were sent, and Peter heard no more of them for a week, when a printed catalogue and perpetual ticket were sent to him with the Secretary's compliments. Peter's eyes ran over the catalogue — at length they fell upon " No. 210. A Bridal Parl^—P. Donaldson," and again, " No._ 230. Dead Game — P. Donaldson ;" but his name did not again oc- cur in the whole catalogue. This was a disappointment ; but it w.as some consolation that hisfavourite piece hadbeen chosen. Next day the exhibition opened, and Peter and Paul visit- ed it together. The " Bridal Party" was a small picture with a modest frame, and they anxiously sought round the room in wliich it was said to be placed; but they saw it not. At length, '' Here it is," said Paul — and there indeed it was, thrust into a dark corner of the room, the frame touching the floor, literally crushed and overshadowed beneath a glar- ing battle piece, six feet in length, and with a fr.ame seven inches in depth. It was impossible to examine it without coin"- upon your knees. Peter's indignation knew no hounds. He would have torn the picture from its hiding-place, but Paul prevented him. Tlicy next looked for No. 230 ; and, to increase the indignation of the artisit, it, with twenty others, ^va£ huddled into the passage, where, as Milton saith, there was •* No light, but ratlicr d^rltness vistWe." Or, as Spencer hath it — '* A little gloomy light much like a sliade Forfourteen days did Peter visit the exhibition, and rclu"" to the lodgings of his brother, sorrowful and disappointed The magical word SOLD was not yet attached to the paint- ing which was to redeem his father's property. One evening, Paul being engaged with his pupils, the artist had gone into a tavern, to drown the bitterness of his disappointment for a few moments with a bottle of ale. The keenness of his feelings had rendered hira ohllvious; and in hisahstractionand misery hehadspokenaloud of his favourite painting, the Bridal Party. Two young gentlemen sat in the next box ; they either were not in the room when he entered, or he did not observe them. They overheard the monologue to which the artist had unconsciously given utterance, and it struck them as a prime jest to lark with his misery. The words " Splendid piece yon Bridal Party;" — " Beautiful !" — " Production of a master !" — " Wonderful that it sold in such a bad light and shameful situation !" fell upon Peter's ears. He started up — he hurried round to the box where they sat — " Gentlemen," he exclaimed eagerly, " do you speak ot the painting No. 210 in the exhibition.?' " Of the same, sir," was the reply. "I am the artist ! — I painted it," cried Peter. " You, sir ! you !" cried both the gentlemen at once, " give us your hand, sir — we are proud of having the honour of seeing you." " Yes, sir," returned one of them; " we left the exhibi- tion to-day just before it closed, and had the pleasure of seeing the porter attach the ticket to it." " Glorious ! — joy ! joy !" cried Peter, running in ecstasy to the bell and ringing it violently ; and as the waiter enter- ed, he added — " A bottle of claret ! — claret, boy ! — claret !" And he sat down to treat the gentlemen who had announced to him the glad tidings. They drank long and deep, till Peter's head came in contact with the table, and sleep scaled up his eyelids. When aroused by the landlord who presented his bill, his companions were gone; and, stupid as Peter was, he recollected for the first time that his pocket did not con- tain funds to discharge the reckoning, and he left his watch with the tavern-keeper, promising to redeem it the next day when he received the price of his picture. I need not tell you what a miserable day that next d.ay was to him, when, with his head aching with the fumes of the wine, he found that he had been duped — that his picture was not sold. The exhibition closed for the season — he had spent his last shil ing, and Paul was as poor as Peter; but the former bor- rowed a guinea to pay his brother's fare on the outside of the coach to . Andrew Donaldson continued to struggle hard ; but strug- gle as he would, he could not pay the interest of the mort- gage. Disappointment, sorrow, humbled vanitj', and the laugh of the world, were too much for him; and, shortly after Peter's visit to Edinburgh, he died, repenting that he had ever pursued the phantom Fashion, or sought after the rot- tenness of wealth. " And what," inquired I, " became of Ifrs Donaldson and her sons Paul and Peter.?" " Peter, sir," continued the narrator, "rose to eminence in his profession ; and, redeeming the mortgage on Lottery Hall, he gave it as a present to his brother Paul, who opened it as an establishment for young gentlemen. His mother resides with him — and, sir, Paul hath spoken unto you ; he hath given you the history of Lottery Hall." JiltjJtonf.il, arrnDittonnry, nno 3-m.istimtibc TALES OF THE BORDERS. THE CIUPPLE en EI5ENEZER THE DISOWNED. It is proverbial to say, with reference to particular consti- tutions or habits of body, that Jlay is a trying month, and we have known wluit it is to experience its trials in the sense signified. With our grandmothers too, yea, and with our grandfathers also, j\lay was held to be an unlucky month. Nevertheless, it is a lovely, it is a beautiful month, and the forerunner of the most healthy of the twelve. It is like a timid maiden bhisliing into womanhood, wooing and yet shrinking from the admiration which her beauty compels. The buds, the blossoms, the young leaves, the lender flowers, the glittering dew-drops, and the song of birds, burst from the grasp of winter as if the God of Na- ture whispered in the sunbeams — " Let there be life !" But it is in the morning only, and before tlie business of the world summons us to its mechanical and artificial realities, that the beauties of INIay can be felt in all their freshness. We read of the glories of Eden, and that the earth was cursed because of man's transgression ; yet, when we look abroad upon the glowing landscape, above us and around us, and behold the pure heavens like a sea of music floating over us, and hear the earth answer it back ia varied melody, while mountain, wood, and dale, seem dreaming in the sound and stealing into loveliness, we almost wonder that a bad man should exist in the midst of a world that is still so beautiful, and where every object around him is a repre- sentative of the wisdom, the goodness, the mercy the purity, and the omnipotence of his Creator. There is a language in the very wild-flowers among our feet that breathes a lesson of virtue. We can apjireciate the feeling with which the poet beheld " The loit rose of summer left blooming alone ;" l)ut in the firstlings of the spring, the primrose, the lily, and their early train, there is an appeal that passes beyond our senses. They are like the lispings and the smiles of infancy — lowly preachers, emblems of our own immortality, and we love them like living things. They speak to us of childhood and the scenes of youth, and manory dwells in their very fragrance. Yes, May is a beautiful month — it is n month of fair sights and of sweet sounds. To it belongs the lowly primrose blushing by the brae-side in congregated beauty, with here and there a cowslip bending over them like a lover among the flowers ; the lily hanging its head by the brook that reflects its image, like a bride at the altar, as if conscious of its own loveliness ; the hardy daisy on the green sward, like a proud man struggling in penury with the storms of fute. Now too, the blossoms on a thousand trees unfold their lainbow hues ; the tender leaves seem instinct with life, and expand to the sunbeams; and the bright fields, like an emerald sea, wave their first undula- tions to the breeze. The lark pours down a flood of melody on the nest of its mate, and the linnet trills a lay of love to its partner from the yellow furze. The chafiinch chaunts i 13. Vol.. I. in the hedge its sweet hut unvaried line qf'music ; the thrush hymns his bold roundelay, and the blackbird swells the chorus, while the bird of spring sends its voice from the glens, like a wandering echo lost between love and sadness; and the swallow, newly returned from warmer climes or its winter sleep, " Twitters fiom the etrau-built shed.' The insect tribe leap into being, countless in numbers and matchless in livery, and their low hum swims like the em- bodiment of a dream in the air. The JIay-fly invites the angler to the river, while the minnow gambols in the brook ■ the young salmon sports and sparkles in the stream, and the grey trout glides slowly beneath the shadow of a rock in tiie deep pool. To enjoy for a single hour in a May morning the luxuries which nature spreads around — to wander in its fields and in its woods — to feel ourselves a part of God's glad creation — to feci the gowan under our feet, and health circulating through our veins with the refreshing breeze is a recipe worth all in the Materia Sledica. Now, it was before siinrise on such a morning in May as I have described, that a travjUer left the Black Bull) in Wooler, and proceeded to the Cheviots. He took his route by way of Earle and Langleeford ; and, at the latter place, leaving the long and beautiful glen, began to ascend the mountain. On the cairn, which is perhaps about five bun. dred yards from what is called the extreme summit of the mountain, he met an old and intelligent shepherd, from whom he heard many tales, the legends of the mountailis — and amongst others, the following story : — Near the banks of one of the romantic streams which take their rise among the Cheviots, stood a small and pleasant, and what might be termed respectable or genteel-looking building. It stood like the home of solitude, encircled by mountains from the world. Beneath it, the rivulet wan- dered over its rugged bed ; to the cast rose Cheviot, the giant of the hills ; to the west, lesser mountains reared their fantastic forms, thinly studded here and there with dwarf allers which the birds of heaven had planted, and \.\\(f{r progeny had nestled in their branches ; to the north and the south stretched a long and secluded glen, where beauty blushed in the arms of wildness — and thick woods, where the young fir and the oak of the ancient forest grew toge- ther, flourished beneath the shelter of the hills. Fertility also smiled by the sides of the rivulet, though the rising and setting sun threw the shadows of barrenness over it. Around the cottage stood a clump of solitary firs, and behind it an enclosure of allers, twisted together, sheltered a gai. den from the storms that swept down the hills. Now, many years ago, a stranger woman, who brought with her a female domestic and a male infant, became the occupant of this house among the hills. She lived more luxuriously than the sheep-farmers in the neighbourhood, and her accent was not that of the Borders. She was be. tween forty and fifty vears of age, and her stature and strength were beyond the ordinary stature and strength of women. Her manners were repulsive, and her bearing haughty ; but it seemed the haughtiness of a weak and uneducated mind. Her few neighbours, simple thougli they 98 TALES OF THE BORDERS. were, and litt.e as thoy saw or knew Oi tliu world, its inha- ivitants and its manners, pcrci'ived that the stranger who \l,ir) nome amongst them had not been liabituatts', to the affluence or easy circumstances with which slic was then surrounded. The child also was hard-fuvoured, and of a dis- agreeable countenance — his back was strangely deformed — his feet were distorted, and his limbs of unequal length. No one could Iook upon the child without a feeling of compas- sion, save the woman who was his mother, his nurse, or his keeper, (for none knew in what relation she stood to him,) and she treated him as a persecutor who hated his sight, and was weary of his existence. She gave her name as BlrsBaird ; and, as the child grew up, she generally in derision called him " Esop," or, in hatred — " the little monster 1" but the woman-servant called him Ebenczer, though she treated him with a degi-ee of harshness only less brutal than her whom he began to call mother. We shall, therefore, in his history mention him by the name of Ebenczer Baird. As he grew in years, the disagreeable expression of his countenance became stronger, his deformity and lameness increased, and the treatment he had experienced added to both. When nine years of age, he was sent to a boarding-school about twelve miles distant. Here a new series of persecu- tions awaited him. Until the day of his entering the school, he was almost ignorant that there was an alphabet. lie knew not a letter. He had seen one or two books, but he knew not their use — he had never seen any one look upon them — he regarded them merely as he did a picture, a piece of useless furniture, or a plaything. Lame as he was, he had climbed the steep and the dripping precipice for the eggs of the water ouzel — sought among the crags for the young of the gorgeous kingfisher, or climbed the tallest trees in quest of the crested wrens, which chirped and fluttered in invisible swarms among the branches.* The birds were to him companions ; he wished to rear their young that they might love him, for there was a lack of something in his heart — he knew not what it was — but it w.is the void of being beloved, of being regarded. It is said that Nature abhors a vacuum, and so did the heart of Ebenczer. He knew not what name to give it, but he longed for something that would shew a liking for him, and to which he could shew a liking in return. The heart is wicked, but it is not unsocial — its afl'cctions wither in solitariness. When he strolled forth on these rambles about the glen, having asked the permission of his mother or keeper (call her what you will) before he went — " Go, imp ! Esop !" she was wont to exclaim, " and I shall pray that you may break your neck before you return." There were no farmers' or shepherds' children within several miles — he had seen some of them, and when they had seen him, they had laughed at his defor- mity — they had imitated his lameness, and contorted their countenances into a caricatured resemblance of his. Such were poor Ebenezer's acquirements, and such his acquaint- imce with human natm'e, when he entered the boai-ding- school. A primer was put into his hands. " What must I do with it.''" thought Ebenezer. lie beheld the rod of cor- rection in the hands of the teacher, and he trembled — for his misshapen shoulders were familiar with such an instru- ment. He heard others read — he saw them write — and he feared, wondered, and trembled the more. He thought tliat he would be called upon to do the same, and he knew he could not. He had no idea of learning — he had never heard of such a thing. He thought that he must do as he saw others doing at once, and he cast many troubled looks at the • The water ouzel, the kingfisher, and the cresled wren, abound In the vicinity of the Cheviots — though tlie latter beautiful little crcatuix) Ig generally considered as quite a rara avis — and last year one being shot about Cumbeflaiid, the ciicumstancc went tlie round of the news- papers! But the bird is not rare, it is only difficult to be sci'n, and generally flutters among the leaves and r.isr the top brinches. lord of a liundred ooys. When the name of " Ebenezei Baird" was called out, he burst into tears, he sobbed, terror overwhelmed him. But when the teacher approached hiiu kindly — took him from his seat — pkiced him between his knees — patted his head, and desired him to speak after him, the heart of the little cripple was assured, and more than assured ; it was the first time he had experienced kind- ness, and he could have fallen on the ground and hugged the knees of his master. The teacher, indeed, found E'r>e- nezer the most ignorant scholar he had ever met withj but he was no tvrant of the birch, though to his pupils ' A man severe he ivas, and stern to view •. and though he had al\ the manners and austerity of the old school about him, he did not lay his head upon the pillo^v with his arm tired by the incessant use of the ferula. He was touched with the simplicity and the extreme ignorance of his new boarder, and he felt also for his lameness and de- formity. Thrice he went over the alphabet with his pupil, commencing — "Big Atv — Little Am," and having got ovci b, he told him to remember that c was like a half moon — " Ye'll aye mind c again," added he, " think ye see the moon." Thus they went on to g, and he asked him what the carters said to their horses when they wished them to go faster ; but this Ebenczer could not tell — carts and horses were sights that he had seen as objects of wonder. They are but seldom seen amongst the hills now, and in those days they were almost unknown. Getting over h, he strove to impress i upon the memory of his pupil, by touching tl'.e solitary grey orbit in his countenance, (for Ebenezer had but one,) and asking him what he called it — " my e'e," an- swered Ebenezer. " No, sir, you must not say yotu e'e, but your eye — mind that, and that letter is /." The teacher went on, shewing him that he could not for- get round O, and crooked S ; and in truth, after his first lesson, Ebenezer was master of these two letters. And, after- wards, when the teacher in trj-ing him promiscuously tlirough the alphabet, would inquire — " What letter is this ?" '• I no ken," the cripple would reply, " hut I'm sure its no 0, and it's no S." Within a week he was master of the six- and-twenty mystical sjnnbols, with the exception of four — and those four were b and d, p and q. Ebenezer could not for three months be brougnt to distinguish the b from the d, nor the p from the q ; but he had never even heard that he had a right hand and a left imtil he came to the school — and how could it be expected .'' Scarce, however, had he mastered the alphabet, until the faculties of the deformed began to expand. He now botli understood and felt what it was to learn. He passed from class to class with a rapidity that astonished his teacher. He could not join in the boisterous sports of his schoolfellows, and while they were engaged in their pastime, he sought solitude, and his task accompanied him. He possessed strong natural talents, and his infirmities gave them the assistance of industry. His teacher noted these things in the cripple, and he was gratified with them, but he hesitated to express his feelings openly, lest the charge of partiality should be brought against him. Ebenczer, however, had entcrctl the academy as the butt of his schoolfellows — they mocked, they mimicked, ihcy tormented, they despised, or affected to des- pise him ; and his talents and progress, instead of abating their persecutions, augmented them. His teacher was afi'aio to shew him more kindness than he shewed to others; and his schoolfellows gloried in annoying the cripple — they per- secuted, they shunned, they hated him more tlian even Jiis mother did. He began to h.itc the world, for he had found none that would love him. His teacher was the only human being that had ever whispered to him words of praise or of kindness, and that had aW'O'S 'ticon in cold, guarded, and measured terms. TALES OF THE BORDERS. 99 Before he was eigliteen lie had nequirod all the knowledge thnt Iiis tenchor could impart, and he returned to tlie cot- tage among the mountains. Tlicre, howoviT, he was again biibjected to a peisecution more barbarous than tliat wliicli he liad met with from liis schoolfi'Hows. Sirs Buird mocked, insulted, and drove him from her presence ; and her do- mestic shewed him neitlier kindness nor respect. In stature, lie scarcely exceeded five feet ; and his bodv was feeble as well as deformed. The crueltv with which he had been treated had given an asperity to his temper, and made him aJsiost a hater of the liunian race ; and tiiese feelings had lent their character to his countenance, marking its naturally har.sh expression with suspicion and melancholy. He was about five-and-twentv when the pings and the terrors of death fell upon her whom he regarded as his pa- rent. t^he died, as a sinner dies — with insulted eternity frowning to receive her. A few minutes before her death, she desired the cripple to approach her bedside. She fixed hor closing eyes, which affection had never lighted, upon his. She informed him that he was not her son. " Oh, tellmethen, whose son am I ? Who aremy parents?" he exclaimed eagerly — "speak ! speak !" " Your parents 1" she muttered, and remorse and ignorance held her departing soul in their grasp. She struggled, she again continued — " Your parents — no, Ebenezer ! no ! — I dare not name them. I have sworn ! — I have sworn ! — and a deathbed is no time to break an oath !" " Speak ! Speak ! — tell me, as you hope for heaven !" cried the cripple, with his thin, bony lingers grasping the wrists of the dying woman. '• Monster ! monster !" she screamed wildly and in terror, " leave me ! leave me ! — you are provided for — open that diest — the chest ! — the chest !" Ebenezer loosed his grasp — he sprang towards a strong chest which stood in the room. " The keys ! the keys !" he exclaimed wildly, and again hurrying to the bed, he violently pulled a bunch of keys from beneath her pillow. But while he applied them to the chest, the herald of death rattled in the throat of its victim ; and, with one agonizing throe and a deep groan, her spirit escaped, ana her body lay a corpse upon the bed. lie opened the chest, and in it he found securities, which settled upon him, under the name of Ebenezer Baird, five thousand pounds. But there was nothing which threw light on his parentage — nothing to inform who he was, or why he was there. The body of her who had never shed a tear over him, he accompanied to the grave. But now a deeper gloom fell upon him. He met but few men, and the few he met shunned him, for there was a wildness and a bitterness in his words — a railing against the world which they wished not to hear. He fancied, too, that they despised him — that their eyes were ever examining the form of his deformities ; and he returned their glance with a scowl, and their words with the accents of hatred. Even as he passed the solitary farm-house, the younger children fled in terror, and the eider laughed or pointed towards him the finger of curiosity. All these things fell upon the heart of tie cripple, and turned the human kindness of his bosom into gall His compa- nions became the solitude of the mountains, and the silence of the woods. They heard his bitter soliloquies without reviling him, or echo answered him in tones of sympathy more mournful than his own. He sought a thing that he might love, that might unlock his prisoned heart, or give life to its blighted feelings. He loved the very primrose, because it was a thing of beauty, and shrank not from his deiormity as man did. To him it gave forth its sweetness, and its leaves withered not at his touch ; and he bent and kissed the flower that smiled upon him whom his kind avc ided. He courted the very storms of winter, for they shunned him not. but spent their fury on his person, uncon- scious of its form. The only living thing that regarded him, or th.it had ever evinced affection towards Iiim, was a dog, of the mastiff kind, which ever followed at his side, licked his hand, and received its food from it. And on this living thing all the airections that liis heart ever felt were ex- pended He loved it a.s a companion, a friend, and protector ; and ho knew it was not ungrateful — it never avoided him ; but when mockery or insult was ofTered to its master, it growled, and looked in his face, as if asking permission to ])Uiiish the offender. Such was the life that he had pas?cd until he was between thirty and forty years of age. Still he continued his solitary rambles, having a feeling for everything around him but man. Man only was his persecutor — man only despi&cd him. liis own kind and his own kindred had shut him out fioro them and disowned him — his sight had been hateful to tlicm and his form loathsome. He avoided the very sun for it re vealed his shadow ; but he wandered, in rapture, gazing oi the midnight heavens, calling the stars by name, while hi« soul w.as lifted up with their glory, and his deformity lost and overshadowed in the depth of their magnificence. H« loved the flowers of day, the song of morning's birds, and the wildness or beauty of the landscapes, but these dwindled, and drew not forth his soul as did the awful gorgeousness ot night, with its ten thousand worlds lighted up, burning, sparkling, glimmering in immensity — the gems that studded the throne of the Eternal. AVhile others slept, the deformed wandered on the mountains, holding communion with the heavens. About the period we refer to, a gay party came upon a visit to a gentleman whose mansion was situated about three miles from the cottage of the cripple. As they rode out, they frequently passed him in his wanderings — and when they did so, some turned to gaze on him with a look of pry- ing curiosity, others laughed and called to their companions, and the indignation of Ebenezer ^^ as excited, and the frown grew black upon his face. He was wandering in a wood in the glen, visiting his fa- vourite wild-flowers, (for lie had many that he visited daily, and each was familiar to him as the face of man to man — he rejoiced when they budded, blo.ssomed, and laughed in their summer joy, and he grieved when they withered and died away,) when a scream of distress burst upon his ear. His faithful mastiff started and answered to the sound. He hurried from the wood to whence the sound proceeded, as rapidly as his lameness would admit. The mastiff followed by his side, and b}' its signs of impatience, seemed eager to increase its speed, though it would not forsake him. The cries of distress continued and became louder. On emerg- ing from the wood he perceived a young lady rushing, wildly, towards it, and behind her, within ten yards, followed an infuriated bull. In a few moments more, and she must have fallen its victim. With an eager howl, the dog sprang from the side of its master, and stood between the lady and her pursuer* Ebenezer forgot his lameness, and the feebleness of his frame, and he hastened at his utmost speed to the rescue of a human being. Even at that moment a glow ot delight passed through his heart, that the despised cripp'e would save the life of a fellow-mortal — of one of the race that shunned him. Ere he approached, the lady had fallen, exhausted and in terror, on tlie ground — the mastiff kept the enraged animal at bay, and, with a strength such as he had never before exhibited, Ebenezer raised the lady in his arms and bore her to the wood. He placed her against a tree — the stream passed by within a few yards, and he brought water in the palms of his hands and knelt over her, to bathe her temples and her fair brow. Her brow was, in- deed, fair, ind her face beautiful beyond all that he had looked upoit Her golden hair, in wavy ringlets, fell upon her shoulders — but her deep blue eyes were closed, llcr years did net appea 'o he more tli;in twenty. 100 TALES OF THE BORDERS. " Beautiful ! — beautiful !" exclaimed tlie cripple, as he dr.'[)pe(l the water on her face, and gazed on it as he spoke • — '• it is wondrous beautiful ! But she will open her eyes — slifi will turn from me as doth her raee ! — as from the animal that pursued her ! — j-et, sure she is beautiful !" and again, as he spoke, Ebenezer sighed. The fair being recovered — she raised her eyes — she gazed on his face, and turned not away from it. Slie expressed no filse horror on beholding his countenance — no affected revul- sion at the sight of his deformity ; but she looked upon him with gratitude — she thanked him with tears. The cripple started — his heart burned. To be gazed on with kindness, to be thanked and with tears, and by one so fair, so young, so beautiful, was to him so strange, so new, he liidf doubted the reality of the scene before him. Before the kindness and gratitude that beamed from her eyes, the misanthropy that had frozen up his bosom began to dissolve, and the gloom on his features died away, as a vapour before the face of the morning sun. New thoughts fired his imagination — new feelings transfiKed his heart. Iler smile fell like a sun- beam on his soul, where light had never before dawned ; her accents of gratitude, from the moment they were delivered, became the music of his memory. He found an object on the earth that he could love — or shall we say that he did love ; for he felt as though already her existence were mys- teriously linked to his. AVe are no hejievers in Aihat is termed — love al_/irst sight. Some romance ^vriters hold it up as an established doctrine, and love-sick boys and moping girls will make oath to the creed. But there never was love at first sight that a week's perseverance could not wear away. It holds no intercourse with the heart, but is a mere fancy of the eye ; as a man would fancy a horse, a house, or a pic- ture which he desires to purchase. Love is not the offspring of an hour or a day, nor is it the ignis-fatmis which plays about tliO brain, and disturbs the sleep of the youth and the maiden in their teens. It slowly steals and dawns upon the heart, as day imperceptibly creeps over the earth, first with the tinged cloud — the grey and the clearei dawn — the approaching, the rising, and the risen sun — blending into each other a brighter and a brighter shade ; but each indis- tinguishable in their progress and blending, as the motion of the pointers on a watch, which move unobserved as time flies, and we note not the silent progress of light till it enve- lope us in its majesty. Such is the progress of pure, holy, and enduring love. It springs not from mere sight, but its radiance grows with esteem ; it is the whisper of sympathy, unity of feeling, and mutual reverence, which increases with a knowledge of each other, until but one pulse seems to throb in two bosoms. The feelings which now swelled in the bosom of Ebenezer Baird were not the true and only love which springs from esteem, but they were akin to it. For though the beauty of the fair being he had rescued had struck his eye, it was not her beauty that melted the mis- anthropy of his heart, but the tear of gratitude, the voice of thanks, the glanpe that turned not away from him, the smile — the first that woman had bestowed on him — that entered his soul. They came from *he heart, and they spoke to the heart. She informed him that her ntmie was Maria Bradbury, and that she was one of the party then on a visit to the gen- tleman in his neighbourhood. lie offered to accompany her to tlie house, and she accepted his offer. But it was neces- sary to pass near the spot where he had rescued her from the fury of the enraged bull. As they drew towards the side of the wood, thev perceived that the bull was gone, but the noble mastiff, the friend, companion, and defender of the cripple, lay dead before them. lilbcnczer wrung his hands, he mourned over his faithful guardian. Friend! poor Friend !" he cried — (the name of the mastifl was Friend) — ' hast thou too left me .'' Thou, of all the things that lived, nlone didst love thv niaster." I'ardon me ladv — uardon an outcast; but until thishourlhave never cxpencnced friend- ship from man nor kindness from woman. The human race have treated me as a thing that belonged not to the same family with themselves ; they have persecuted or mocked me, and I have hated them. Start not — hatred is an alien to my soul — it was not bom there, it was forced upon it — but I hate not you — no ! no .' You have spoken kindly to me, you have smiled on mo ! — the despised, the disowned Ebenezer will remember you. That poor dog, alone, of all living things, shewed affection for me. But he died in a good cause ! Poor Friend ! poor Friend ! — where shall I find a companion now?" and the tears of the cripple ran down his cheeks as he spoke. ]\Iaria wept also, partly for the fate of the noble animal that had died in her deliverance, and partly from the sorrow of her companion ; for there is a sympathy in tears. " Ha ! you weep !" cried the cripple, " you weep foi poor Friend and for me. Bless thee ! bless thee, fair one I — they are the first that were ever shed for my sake — I thought there was not a tear on earth for me." He accompanied her to the lodge of the mansion where she was then residing, and there he left her, though she invited him to accompany her, that he might also receive the congratulations of her friends. She related to them her deliverance. Ha ! little Ebe- nezer turned a hero !" cried one — " Elienezer the cripple become a knight-errant !" said another. But they resolved to visit him in a body and return him their thanks. But the soul of the deformed was now changed, and his countenance, though still melancholy, had lost its asperity His days became a dream, his existence a ■wish. For the first time he entertained the hope of happiness — it was vain, romantic, perhaps we might say absurd, but he cherished it. Maria spoke much of the courage, the humanity, the seeming loneliness, and the knowledge of the deformed, to her friends ; and their entertainer, with his entire party or visiters, with but one exception, a few days afterwards pro- ceeded to the cottage of Ebenezer, to thank him for his intrepidity. The exception we have alluded to was a Lady Helen Domngton, a woman of a proud and haughty temper, and whose personal attractions, if she ever possessed any, were now disfigured by the attacks of a violent temper, and the crow-feet and the wrinkles, which threescore years im- print on the fairest countenance. She excused herself by saying, that the sight of deformed people affected her. Amongst the party who visited the cripple, was her son, Francis Dorrington, a youth of two-and-twenty, who was haughty, fiery, and impetuous as his mother. He sought the hand of Alalia Bradbury, and he now walked by her side. Ebenezer received them coldly ; amongst them were many who were wont to mock him as the}' passed, and he now I believed that they had come to gratify curiosity, by gazing I on his person as on a wild animal. But, when he saw the I smile upon JIaria's lips, the benign expression of her] glance, and her hand held forth to greet him, his coldness I vanished, and joy, like a flash of sunshine, lighted up his I features. Yet, he liked not the impatient scowl with which ( Francis Dorrington regarded her attention towards him, I nor the contempt which moved visibly on his lip when she I listened delighted to the words of the despised cripple. He I seemed to act as though her eyes shouLi be fixed on him alone — her words addressed only to bin Jealousy entered ' the soul of the deformed ; and shall we ^ay that the same feeling was enteitnined by the gay and the haughty Dor- rington.^ It was He felt that, insignificant as the outwa'd appearance of tl e cripple was, his soul was that of an i-itol- lectu.al giant, before the exuberance of whose power theJ party were awed, and JIaria lost in admiration. His tones f were musical, as his figure was unsightly, and his knowledge I universal as bis iitrson "tis .llmiuutivc. lie discoursed with I TALES OF TEE BORDEKa 101 a popt'w tonsiic nil Uiu Iioaiity i;y of the iiiiiiiiit;iiiis. He traced elFect to ciuise, iind both to tlieir Creator. The party marvelled wliik' the deformed spoke ; and he repeUed the scowl and contempt of his rival with sarcasm that .scathed litce a passiuij lightniiij;. Thi'se things jirodiicid feelings of lealousy also in the breast of Francis Dorrington ; tlioui;li from Jlaria IJradhiiry he liad never received one smile of rncouragement. On their takiii'; leave, the ontertaimr of tlie parly invited I'!hene/.er to his house, but tlie latter re- fused ; he feared to niiu^Ie with societv, for oft as he had associated with man, lie had been rendered their sport — tlie thing they jiersecuted — the butt of their irony. For many days the cripple met, or rather .souglit JIaria, ill his solitary rambles ; for she, too, loved the solitude of the mountains or the silence of the woods, which is lirokcn only by the plaintive note of the wood-pigeon, the (/lirm of the linnet, the song of the thrush, the twitter of the chr.ffinch, or the distant stroke of tlie woodman, lending silence a charm. She had become familiar with his deformity, and as it grew less singular to her eyes, his voice became sweeter to liir ears. Their conversation turned on many things — there was wisdom in his words, and she listened to him as a pupil to a pre- ceptor. His feelings deepened with their interviews, his hopes biightened, and felicity seemed dawning before him. As hope kindled, he acquired confidence. They were walk- ing together, lie had pointed out the beauties and exjilained the properties of the wild (lowers on their path, he had dwelt on the virtues of the humblest weed, when he stopped short, and gazing in her face — " iMaria !" he added, " I have loved these floweis — 1 have cherished ihose simple weeds, because they shunned me not — they shrank not from me, as did the creatures of the human race — they spread their beau- ties before me — they denied me not their sweetness. You only have I met with among the children of Adam, who persecuted me not with ridicule, or who insulted not my deformity with the vulgar gaze of curiosity- Who I am 1 know not — from whence 1 was brought amongst these hills I cannot tell — I am a thing which the world has laughed at, and of which my parents were ashamed. But my wants have been few. I have gold to purchase flattery if I desired it — to buy tongues to tell me I am not deformed ; hut 1 desjiise them. iMy soul partakes not of my body's infirmities — it has sought a spirit to love, that would love it in return. JIaria, has it found one.''" Maria was startled — she endeavoured to speak, but her tongue faltered — tears gathered in her eyes, and her looks bespoke pity and astonishment. '• Fool ! fool !" exclaimed the cripple, " I have been de- ceived ! Waria pities me! — onli/ pil:es me! Hate me, Jlaria — despise me as does the world. I can bear hatred — I can endure scorn — I can repel them ! — but pity consumes me ! — and pihj from you 1 P'ool ! fool !" he added, " where- fore dreamed 1 there was one that would look with love on deformed Ebenezer.'' Farewell, Jlaria! farewell! — remember, but do not pity me !" and he hurried from her side. She would have detained him — she would have told him that she reverenced him — that slie esteemed him ; but he hastened away, and she felt also that she pitied him — and love and pity can never dwell in the same breast, for the same object. Maria stood and wept- Ebcnezer rcturntd to his cottage , but the hope which he had cherished, the dream which he had fed, died reluctantly. He accused himself for acting precipitately — he believed he had taken the tear of affection for pity. His heart was at war with itself. Day after day he revisited the mountain- side, and the path in the wood where they had met, but Maria wandered there no longer. His feelings, his impa- tience, his incertitude, rose superior to the ridicule of man — be resolved to visit the man.sion of his neighbour, where JIaria and l.er friendf were resiJiiif. The dinner bell was ringing as lie approached (lie liouse ; but he knew little of tlie eti- ipiette of the world, and respicted not its forms. The owner of the mansion welcomed him with the right hand of cordi- ality, for his discourse in the cottage had charmed him ; otheri expressed welcome, for some who before had mocked now respected him, and Maria took his iiand \vith a look of joy and her wonted sweetness. Tiie licart of Kbenezcr felt assured. Francis Dorrington alone frowned, and rose not f> welcome him. 'J he dinner bell again rang; the Lady Helen had not arrived, and dinner was delayed for lier, liut she came not. They proceeded to the dining-room. Ebenezer offered his arm to Jlaria, and slie accejited it. Francis Dorrington muttered angry words between his teeth. '1 he dinner passed — the dessert was placed upon the table — Lady Helen entered the room — she ])rayed to be excused for her delay — ■ her host ro.se to introduce her to Ebenezer. "Ebenezer! — the deformed !" she exclaimed in a tonn of terror, and dashing her hands before her eyes as he rose be- fore her, she fell back in hysterics. " Turn the monster from the house!" cried Francis Dor- rington, springing forward, "my mother cannot endure tne sight of such." " Whom call ye monster, young man }" s.iid Ebenezer angrily. "You — wrefch!" replied Dorrington, raising his hand, and striking the cripple to the floor. " Shame ! shame !" exclaimed the company. " Coward !" cried JIaria, starting from her seat. The cripple, with a rapidity that seemed impossible, sprang to his feet — he gasped, he trembled, every joint shook, rage boiled in his veins— he glanced at his insulter, who attempted to repeat the blow — he uttered a yill of vengeance, he clutched a dessert knife- from the table, and within a moment, it was plunged in the body of the man who had injured him. A scream of liorrnr burst from the company. Ebenezer, with the reeking knife in his grasp, stood trembling from rage, not from remorse. But he offered not to repeat the blow. A half-consciousness of what he had done seemed to stay his hand. The sudden scream of the party aroused the lady Helen from her real or affected fit. She beheld her son bleeding on the floor — she saw the vengeful knife in the hands of the cripple. She screamed more wildly than be- fore — she wrung her hands ! " Jlonster ! — murderer !" she exclaimed, " he has slain ! — he has slain his brother !" " Ml/ brother !" shouted Ebenezer, still grasping the knife in his hand — " woman ! woman ! — mother ! mother ! — who am I .'' — answer me, who are you?" and he sprang forward and held her by the arm. " Tell me," he continued, " what mean ye ? — what mean ye ? — my brother — do ye say my brother? Art thou mv r«o//(cr? Have 1 a JHO(/;er? Speak! — speak !" and he grasped her arm more fiercely. " Monster !" she repeated, " ofTspring of my shame ! — away! away! — lie is thi/ brother/ I have shunned thee, wretch— I have disowned thee — hut thou hast carried mnr- der to my bosom !" and tearing her arm from his grasp, she threw it round the neck of her wounded son. The company gazed upon each other. Ebenezer stood for a moment, his eyes rolling, his teeth rattling together, the knife shaking in his hand. He uttered a wild cry ot agony — he tore the garments from his breast, as though it were ready to burst, and with the look and the howl ot n maniac, he sprang to the door and disappeared. Some from an interest in his fate, others from a desire to secure him, followed after him Mut he fled to the woods and they traced him not. It was found that the wound of Francis Dorrington was not mortal, and the fears of the company were directed from him to Ebenezer, whom thev feared had laid violent liand.^ i upon his own life 102 TALES OF THE BORDERS. On tlie folio-wing c!;iy, witliouf again meeting tlie com- pany. Lady Helen left the house, having ackno\vledged tlie deformed Ebenezer to be her son — achikl of shame — whose birth had been concealed from the -world. On the third day tlie poor cripple was found hy a shep- herd, wandering ou the hills — his head was uncovered — his garments and his body were torn by the brambles through Which he had rushed. His eyes rolled wildly, and, when accosted, he fled, exclaiming — " I am Cain ! — 1 am Cain ! — J have slain my brother ! — touch mc not — the mark is on my forehead !" He was secured and tiiken to a place of safety. The circumstances twined round iM aria's heart — she heard no more of Ebenezer the cripple, but she forgot him not. Several years passed, and she, together with a friend, visit- ed a lunatic asylum, in a distant part of the country, in wliich a female acquaintance, once the admired of societ}', had be- come an inmate. They were shewn round the dift'erent •wards — some of the inmates seemed happy, others melan- choly, but all were mild ; all shrank from the eye of their keeper. The sounds of the clanking chains, around their ancles, filled Maria's soul with lioiTor, and she longed to de- {lart. But the keeper invited them to -visit the garden of lis asylum. They entered, and beheld several quiet-look ing people engaged in digging ; others were pruning trees and some sat upon benches on the paths, playing with their fingers, striking their heels upon the ground, or reading stray leaves of an old book or a newspaper. Each seemed engaged with himself — none conversed with his neighbour. Upon a bench, near the entrance to a small arbour or sum- mer-house, sat a female, conning an old ballad ; and, as she perused it, she laughed, wept, and sang by turns. IMaria stopped to converse with her, and her friend entered the ar- bour. In it sat a grey-headed and deformed man ; he held a volume of Savage in his hand, which had then been but a short time published. ' I am reading ' The Bastard' by Savage," said he, as tlie stranger entered, " he is my favourite autlior. His fate was mine^ie describes my feelings. He had an unnatural mother — soliadl. He was disowned — so was I. He slew a man, and so did I — but I my brother." The voice, the words, fell upon Maria's car. She became pale, she glanced towards the arbour — she cast an inquiring look upon the keeper. " Fear not, ma'am," he replied, "he is an innocent crea- ture. He does not r.ave now — and but that there is an oc- casional wildness in his Language, he is as well as you are. Enter and converse with him, ma'am ; lie is a great speaker, and to much pui-pose too, as visiters tell me." She entered the arbour. The cripple's eyes met hers — lie threw down the hook. " IMaria !— Maria !" he exclaim- ed, " this is kind ! — this is kind, indeed ! — but do not pity me — do not pity me again ! Hate me JIaria ! — you saw me slay my brotjier !" She informed him that his brother was not dead — that he had recovered within a few weeks. " Not dead !" replied the cripple " thank Heavon ; Eben- ezer is not a murderer But I am well now — the fever of njy brain is passed. Go, JIaria, do this for me, it is all I now ask — inquire why I am here immured, and by whose authority ; suffer not my reason to be buried in reason's tomb, and crushed among its wrecks. Your smile, your words of kindness, your tears of gratitude caused me to dream once — and its remembrance is still as a speck of light amidst the darkness of my bosom — but these grey hairs have liroken the dream" — and Ebenezer bent Jiis head upon his breast, and sighed. JIaria and her friend left the asylum, oat in a few wcrKs they returned, and when theyag.ain departed, Ebenezer Baird went with them. He now sought not Maria's love, but he was gratified with her esteem and tliat of her friends. He outlived the persecution of his kindred, and the derision ol the world ; and, in tlie forty-sixth year of his age, he died in peace, and bequeathed his property to Maria Bradljurv — the first of the human race that bad looked on him with kindness or cheered him with a smile. THE B 11 K E X II V. A K ']' A TALE OF THE REBELLION Eaui.y in the November of 1745, the news reached Cam. bridge that Charles Stuart, at the head of his hardy and de- voted Highlanders, had crossed the Borders, and taken pos- session of Carlisle. The inhabitants gazed upon each othei with teii'or, for the swords of the clansmen had triumphed over all opposition ; they were regarded, also, by the multi. tude as savages, and by the more ignorant as cannibals. Bui there were others who rejoiced in the success of the young Adventurer, and who, dangerous as it was to confess their joy, took but small pains to conceal it. Amongst these was .James Dawson, the son of a gentleman in the north of Lan- cashire, and then a student at St John's College. That night he invited a party of friends to sup with him, -nho entertained sentiments similar to his own. The cloth -was withdrawn, and he rose and gave, as the toast of the even- ing — " rriiice Charles — ajid success to Iiim .'" His guests, fired with his own enthusiasm, rose and received the toast with cheers. The bottle went round — the young men drank deep, and other toasts of a similar nature followed. The song succeeded the toast, and James Dawson sang the fol- lowing, which seemed to be the comjiosition of the day :^ *' Free, o'er the Borders, the tartan is streaming, The dirk is unshoathed, and the claymore is gleaming, The Prince and liis clansmen in triumph advance, Nor needs he tlie long-promised succours of France. From the Cumberland mountains, and Westmoreland lake, Each brave man shall snatch up a sword for his s^ike ; And the * Lancashire Witch' on her bosom shall wear The snow-white cockade, by her lover placed there.** But while he yet sang, and as he completed but the first verse, two constables and three or four soldiers l)urst into the room, and denounced them as traitors and as their pri- soners. " Down with them !" exclaimed .James Dawson, spring- ing forward, and snatching down a sword which was sus- pended over the mantelpiece. The students vigorously re- sisted the attempt to make them jirisoners, and sevci-al of them, with their entertainer, escaped. He concealed himself for a short time, when, his horse being brought, he took the road towards I^Ianchcster, in or- der to join the i-anks of the Adventu.-cr. It was about mid- day, on the 29th, when he reached the town which is now the emporium of the manufacturing world. On proceeding down ^larket Street, he perceived a confused crowd, some uttering threats, and others with consternation expressed on their countenance ; and, in the midst of the multitude, was Sergeant Dickson, a young woman, and a drummer hoy, beating up for recruits. The white cockade streamed from the hat of the sergeant ; the populace vented their indigna- tion against him, but no man dared to seize him, for he I continued to turn round and round, with a blunderbuss in his hand, facing the crowd on all sides, and threatening to shoot the first man that approached, -nho was not ready to serve the Prince, and to mount the white cockade. The young I woman carried .a supjily of the ribbons in her h.and, and evei I and anon waved them in triumph, exclaiming — "Charlieyct'" Some dozen recruits alreadv followed at the heels of the ser- ', and the land was conquered." I might describe to you the exultation and the rejoicings of James and his brethren, when they heard of the victories of Jlarengo, Ulm, and Austerlitz : and how, in their little parties of two and three, they walked a mile farther togeth( in the fields, or by the sides of the T\vecd, or peradvcntur indulged in an extra pint with one another, though most of them were temperate men ; or, I might describe to you, how, upon such occasions, they would ask eagerly — " Bui what is James saying to it ?" 1, however, shall dwell oulj upon his conduct when he heard of the battle of Jena. He was standing with a brother Leveller at a corner of the vil. lage, when the mail arrived, which conveyed the import-mt tidings. I think I see him now, as he appeared at that ma TALES OF THE BOKDERS. 107 mont. Both were in eipcctation of momentous informa- tion — they ran to the side of the coach tofrcthcr. " What news ? — what news f" they inquired of the guard at once, He stooped down, as they ran by the side of the coach, and informed them. The eyes of James glowed with delight — Lis nostrils xrcse dilated. " Oh ! the great, the glorious man !" he exclaimed, rub- bing his hands in ecstacy, and turning away from the coach ; " the matchless ! — the wonderful ! — the great- Napoleon ! — there is none like hira — there never was — he is a sun among the stars — they cannot twinkle in his presence." He and his friends received a weekly paper amongst them — it was the day on which it arrived ; they followed the coach to the post-office to receive it — and I need not tell you with what eagerness the contents of that paper were read. James was the reader ; and after he had read an ac- count of the battle, he gave his hearers a dissertation upon it. He laid his head upon his pillow, with his thoughts filled with Napoleon and the battle of Jena ; and when, on the following morning, he met two or three of his companions at the corner of the village, where they were wont to assem- ble for ten minutes after breakfast, to discuss the affairs of Europe, James, with a look of even more than his usual importance and sagacity, thus began :^ " I hae dreamed a marvellous dream. I saw the battle o' Jena — I beheld the Prussians fly with dismay before the voice of the conqueror. Then did I see the great man, ar- rayed in his robes of victory, bearing the sword of power in his hand, ascend a throne of gold and of ivory. Over the throne was a gorgeous canopy of purple, and diamonds bespangled the tapestry as a firmament. The crowns of Europe lay before him, and kings, and princes, and nobles, kneeled at his feet. At his nod, he made kings and exalted nations. Armies fled and advanced at the moving of his finger — they were machines in his hand. The spirits of Alexander and of Caesar — all the heroes of antiquity — gazed in wonder upon his throne ; each was surrounded by the halo of his victories and the fame of ages ; but their haloes became dim before the flash o' his sword of power, and the embodiment of their spirits became as a pale mist before the majesty of his eyes, and the magnificence of his triumphs. The nations of the earth were also gathered around the throne, and as with one voice, in the same language, and at the same moment, they waved their hands, and cried, as peals of thunder mingle wi' each other — ' Long live the great Emperor !' But, while my soul started within me at the mighty shout, and my eyes gazed with wonder and istonishment on the glory and the power of the great man, darkness fell upon the throne, troubled waters dashed around it, and the vision of night and vastness — the Emperor, the kneeling kings the armies, and the people, were encom- passed in the dark waves — swallowed as though they had not been ; and, with the cold perspiration standing on my forehead, I awoke, and found that 1 had dreamed."* " It is a singular dream," said one. " Sleeping or waking, James is the same man," said an- other, " aye out o' the common run. You and me wad hae slecped a twelvemonth before we had dreamed the like o' that." But one circumstance arose which troubled James much, and which all his admiration, yea, all his worship of Napo- leon could not wholly overcome. James, as we have hinted, was a rigid I'resbvtcrian, and the idea of a man putting away iis wife, he could not forgive. When, therefore, Napoleon divorced the gentle Joseuhine, and took the daughter of Austria to his bcJ-^ • Many in Ihia neighbourliood, who read the Leveller's dream, will rememljer the original. Twenty years ago, I heard it related by the ire:tujer, with all the enthiisiasra of s etanch admirer of Napoleon, and I hare preserved hia words and imagery as '•loocly an I could recollect tlurm. " He hath done wrong," said James ; " he has erred grievously. He has been an instrument in humbling the I'ope, the instrument foretold in the Revelation ; and he has been the glorious means o' levelling and destroying the Inquisition — hut this sin o' putting away his v/ifs, and pre- teniiing to marry another, casts a blot upon a' his glories ; and 1 fear that humiliation, as a punishnu.nt, will follow the foul sin. Ytt, after a', as a man, he was subject to tempta- tion ; and, as being no common man, we maunna judge his conduct by common rules." " lleally, James," said the individual he addressed, " wi a' my admiration o' tlie great man,* and my respect for you, I'm no just clear upon your last remark — when the .Scrip- tures forbade a man to put away his wife there was nae exception made for kings or emperors." " True," said James — " but" James never finished his " but." Ilis conscience told him that his idol had sinned; and when the disastrous cam- paign to Russia shortly after followed, he imagined that he beheld in its terrible calamities the punishment he had pre- dicted. The sun of Napoleon had reached its meridian, the fires of Moscow raised a cloud before it, behind which it hastened to its setting. In the events of that memorable invasion and retreat, James Nicholson took an eager and mournful interest. Thoughts of it haunted him in his sleep ; and he would dream of Russian deserts which presented to the eye an unbounded waste of snow; or start, exclaiming, " The Cossacks ! — the Cossacks 1" His temper, too, be- came irritable, and his family found it hard to bear with it. This, however, was not the only cause which increased the irritability, and provoked the indignation, of James (he Leveller ; for, as the glory of Napoleon began to wane, and the arms of the British achieved new victories in the Penin- sula, he and his brethren in principle became the objects of almost nightly persecution. Never did the mail arrive, bearing tidings of the success of the British or their allies, but as surely was a figure, intended to represent one or other of the Levellers, paraded through the village, and burned before the door of the ofiender, amidst the shouts, the groans, and laughter, of .=ome two or three hundred boys and you7ig men. The reade;- may be surprised to hear that one of the princlpalleadersof these youngand mischief-loving loyalists was no other than Geohge WAsriiNOTON, the only son of our friend, James Nicholson. To turn him from conduct, andthemanifestation ofa principle, so unworthyofhisname, James spared neither admonition, reproof, nor the rod of correction. But George was now too old for his father to apply the latter, and his advice and reproof in this matter was like throwing water in the sea. The namesake of the great President never took a part in such exhibitions of his father, and in holding his principles up to execration and contempt ; on the contrary, he did all in his power to pre- vent them, and repeatedly did he prevent them — but ho entered, with his whole heart, into every proposal to make a mock spectacle of others. The young tormentors knew little or nothing of the principles of (he men they delighted to persecute — it was enough for them to know that thev were LeeeUers, that they wished the French to tcin ; and although James Nicholson was known to be, as I have al- ready said, the very king and oracle of the levelling party in the neighbourhood, yet, for his son's sake, he frequently escaped the persecution intended for him, and it was visited upon the heads of more insignificant characters. One evening, James beheld his son heading the noisy band in a crusade against the peace of a particular fiiend ; moreover, George bore a long pcle over his shoulder, to the (op of which an intended resemblance of his father's friend was attached. James further saw his hopeful son and the * I have often remarked that the admirers of Napoleon were wont to Bpeuk of him aa Ua ^rcat man. ns T^iLES OF THE BOEDERS. crowd reach his friend'a house, ne beheld him scaie the walls, (which were but a single story in height,) he saw him stand upon the roof — the pole, with the effigy attached to it, was again handed to him, and, amidst the shouts of his companions, he put the pole down the chimney, leaving , the figure as a smoke.doctor on its top. James could endure no more. " Oh, the villain ! — the scoundrel !" he cried — " the — the° but he could add no more, from excess of indignation. He rushed along the street — he dashed through the crowd — he grasped hia son by the tliroat, at the moment of his springing from the roof. He shook n-ith rage. He struck him violently. He raised his feet and kicked him. " ^\'hat is a' this for ?" said George, suUenly, while he suffered even more from shame than his father's violence. " What is it fori" cried James, half choked with passion ; " ye rascal ! — ve disgrace I — ve profligate! — how can ye ask what is it for ?" and he struck him again. " Faither," said George, more sullenly than before, " I wad advise ye to keep yer hands to yersel' — at least on the street and before folk." " Awa wi' re ! ye reprobate I" exclaimed the old man, " and never enter my door again — never while ye breathe — j"e thankless I" " Be it sae," said George. ' James returned to his house, in sorrow and in anger. He was out of humour with everything. He found fault with his daughter — he spoke angrilv to his wife. Chairs, stools, tables, and crockerv, he kicked to the right and left. He flung his supper behind the fire when it was set before him. lie was grieved at his son's conduct ; but he was also angry ftnth himself for his violence towards him. A serg€ast of a Highland regiment had been for some time in the village, on the recruiting service. He was to ' leave with his recruits, and proceed to Leith, where they were immediatelv to embark on the following morning, i Amongst the recruits, were many of the acquaintances of , George and his companions. After the affair of the effigv, they went to have a parting glass with them. George was then about nineteen. He had not vet forgiven his fathei for the indignitv he had openlv offered to him — he remem- bered he had forbidden him his house. One of his compa- nions jestinglv alluded to the indignation of the old man — he " wondered how George stood it." The remark made his feelings more bitter. He felt shame upon his face. An- other of his companions enlisted ; in the excitement of the moment, George followed his esample, and, before sunrise on the following morning, was on his road to Leith with the other recruits. Old James arose and went to his loom, unhappv and trou- bled in his spirit. He longed for a recoaciliatian with his son — to tell him he was sorrv for the length to which his temper had led him, and also calmlv to reason with him on the folly, the unreasonableness, and the wickedness, of his own conduct, in running with a crowd at his heels about the street, persecuting honest men, and endangering both the peace of the town and the safety of property. But he had been an hour at the loom, and George took not his place at his (for he had brought him up to his own trade); another hour passed and breakfast time arrived, but the shuttlewhich had been driven bv the hand of his son, sent forth no sound. ••' MTiere is George .'" inquired he, as he entered the house ; " wherefore has he no been ben at his wark ?" " Ye ken best," returned Peggy, who thought it her time to be out of humour, " for it lies between ve ; but veil carrr on yer rampaging fits o' passion tUi re drive baith the bairns an' me frae "bout the house. Ye may seek for George whar ye saw him last ; but there is his bed, un- touched, as I made it yesterday mornipg, anfl ye see what )e'-c- made o' yer handy-wark." " Jh, baud yer ton^ie re wicked woman- ye," said James, I " for it wad clip clouts. Had job been aiQicted wf yei tongue, he wad needed nae other trial !" " 21 y tongue!" retorted she; " ay, gnde truly! but if ony woman but mysel' had to put up wi' yer temper, they wad ken what it is to be tried." " Puir woman ! ye dinna ken yer bom !" replied James ; and, turning to his daughter, added, " rin awa out, Katie, an' see if yer brother is -n-i' ony o' his acquaintances — he'll hae been sleeping wi' some o' them. Tell him to come hame to his breakfast." She left the house, and returned in about ten minutes, weeping, sobbing, wringing her hands, and exclaiming — " George is listed and awa ' — he's listed and awa ! — piy poor George !" " Listed !° exclaimed James ; and he fell back against th« wall, as though a bullet had entered his bosom. " Listed ! my bairn — my darling bairn listed I" criedPeggy; " O James ! James I — ye cruel man ! see what ye've done — ye hae driven my bairn to destruction !" " Woman I woman !" added he, " dinna torment me be- yond what I am able to endure ; do ye no think I am suf- fering enough, and mair than enough, without you aggra- vating my misery } Oh ! the rash, the thoughtless callant ! Could he no forgie his faither for ae fault .' — a faither that could lay down his life for him. Haste ye, Katie, get me my stick and my Sunday coat, and I'U follow him — he canna be far yet — I'll bring him back. Wheesht now, Peggy," he added, " let us hae nae mair reflections — just compose yersel' — George shall be hame the night, and well let by. ganes be byganes." " Oh, then, James, rin every foot," said Peggy, whose iU-hnmour had yielded to her maternal anxietv ; " bring him back whether he will or no ; tell him how ill Katie is, and that if he persists in being a sodger, he will be the death o' his mother." With a heavy and an anxious heart, James set out in pur suit of his son ; but the sergeant and his recruits had take« the road six hours before him. On arriving at Dunbar, where he expected they would halt for the night, he was informed, that the sergeant, being ordered to push forward to Leith with all possible expedition, as the vessel in which thev were to embark was to sail with the morning tide, had, ^•ith his recruits, taken one of the coaches, and would then be within a few miles of Edinburgh. This was another blow to James. But after resting for a space, not exceed. ing five minutes, he hastened forward to Leith. It was midnight when he arrived, and he could learn nothing of his son, or the vessel in which he was to embark ; but, weary ss he was, he wandered along the shore and the pier till morning. Day began to break — the shores of the Firth became dimly visible ; the Bass, like a fixed cloudi appeared on the distant horizon ; it was more than half-tidi>, and, as he stood upon the pier, he heard the j^o.heave-o/ i< seamen, proceeding from a smack which lav on the south side of the harbour, by the lowest bridge. He hastened towards the vessel — but, before he approached it, and while 1 the cry of the seamen yet continued, a party of soldiers and I recruits issued from a tavern on the shore. They tossed their] caps in the air, they huzzaed, and proceeded towards the! smack. With a throbbing heart, James hurried forward,] and in the midst of them, through the grey light, he beheld j his son. '' O George I" cried the anxious parent, " what a jonmej ] re hae glen yer faither !" George started at his father's voice, and for a moment h« ] was silent and sullen, as though he had not yet forgiven him " Come, George," said the old man, affectionately, " let ( us forget and forgie — come a«Ti htone again, my man, an I'll pay the smart money. Dinna persist in bringing yei j mother to her grave — in breaking yer sister's heart, pui/j thins, and in makirtJ ;ne miserable-" TALES OF THE BOIlDERa KG ' O faither ! faither !" groaned Geofge, grasping his (ritber'a hand, " its owre late — its owre late now 1 What's done canna be undone !" " Why for no, buim ?" cried James ; " an how is it o^vre late ? Tlie ship's no sailed, and I've the siuart-money in my pocket." " But I've ta'en the bounty, faither — I'm sworn in !" re- plied the son. " Sworn in !" exclaimed the unhappy father, " Oh mercy me ! what's this o't ! IMy happiness is destroyed for ever. O George 1 George, man! wliat is this that ye've done? llovr shall I meet yer poor wretched mother without ye?" George laid his head upon his father's shoulder and wrung his iiand. He was beginning to experience what hours, what years of misery may proceed from the want of a mi- nute's calm reflection. Tlie thought of buying him off could not be entertained. The vessel was to sail within an hour — men were needed ; but even had no other obstacles attended the taking of such a step, there was one that was insur- mountable — James Nicholson had never in his life been possessed of half the sum necessary to accomplish it, nor could he have raised it by the sale of his entire goods and chattels ; and his nature forbade him to solicit a loan from otiiers, even to redeem a son. They wore beginning to haul off the vessel ; and poor George, who now felt all the bitterness of remorse, added to the anguish of parting from a parent, thrust his hand into his pocket, and, as he bade him farewell, attempted to put his bounty-money in his father's hand. The old man sprung back, as if a poisonous snake had touched hira. The princi- ples of the Leveller rose superior to the feelings of the father. " George !" he cried, " George ! can my ain son insult me, an' in a moment like this ? Me tak yere blood-money I — me ! — me ) Ye dinna ken yer faithor 1 Before I wad Couch money gotten in such a cause, I wad starve by a dyke-side. Fling it into the sea, George ! — fling it into the sea! — that's the only favour ye can confer upon yer faither." But, again, the parent gained the ascendency in his heart, and he added — " But, poor chicld, ye meant it kindly. Fareweel, then, my man I — Oh, fareweel, George ! Heaven be wi' my misguided bairn ! Oh ! what shall I say to yer poor mother ? Fareweel, lad ! — fareweel !" The vessel was pulled off — and thus parted the father and his eon. I shall not describe the feelings of James on his solitary journey homewards, nor dwell upon the grief of his wife and daughter, when they beheld that he returned alone, and that Georce " was not." It was about two years after his son had enlisted, that the news of the peace and the abdication of Napoleon arrived. James was not one of those who partook of the general joy ; but while he mourned over the fall of the man whom he had ail but worshipped, he denounced the conduct of the allied sovereigns in strong and hitler terais of indignation. The bellman went round the village, calling upon the inhabitants to demonstrate their rejoicing by an illumination. The Levellers consulted James upon the subject, and his advice was, that they ought not, let the consequences be what they would, comply with the request or command of the autho- rities, and which had been proclaimed by the town-crier ; on the contrary, he recommended, that at the hour when the illumination was to commence, every man of them should estinguibh the fires in his house, and leave not a lamp or a rushligiit burning. His advice was always .akin to a com- mand, and it w;is implicitly followed. 'Jhe houses were lighted up — the illumination was general, save only the win- dows of the Levellers, which appeared as in mourning ; and soon attracted the attention of the crowd, the most unruly nniongst wb.om raised the cry of " Smash them !— send them in," and the cry was no sooner made than it was obeyed ; Stones lliw thick as hail, panes were shivered, sashes br^l. and they ran from one heme to another carrying on theix work of ilost ruction. In its turn, they came to the dwelling of James — they raised a yell before it — a stone was thrown, and the crash of broken glass was heard. James opened the door, and stood before them. They yelled louder. "Break away 1" said ho, contemptuously ; " ye puir infa- tuated Sauls that ye are — break away, an' dinna leave a hale pane, if it's yer sovereign will an' pleasure I Ye silly, thoughtless, senseless idiots; how mony hunder millions has it cost this country to cram the precious Bourbons on the people o' France again? — an' whas to jiay it, think ye ?" " No you. Jemmy," cried a voice from the crowd. " But I maun toil frae momin' till night to help to do it ye blockhead ye," answered James ; " an' ye hae to do tlie same, an' yer back has to gang bare, an' yer bairns to be hungered for it ! Certcs, friends, ye hae great cause for an illumination I But, as if the bunders o' millions which yer assistance o' the Bourbons has added to the national debt were but a trifle, ye, forsooth, must increase yer county burdens by breaking decent people's windows, for their sake, out o' pure mischief. Break awa, friends, if it's yer plea- sure, the damage winna come out o' my pocket ; and if yet siller is sae plentifu' that ye can afford to throw it awa in chucky-stanes I^fling ! fling I" and, withdrawing into the house, he shut the door. " Odd ! I dinna ken," said one of the crowd, " but there's a deal o' truth in what he says." " It was too bad to touch his windows," said another; " his son, George, has been in the wars, an' the life o' a son is o' mair value than a pound o' candles." " Ye're richt," cried a third. " Hurra for Jemmy the Leveller !" cried another. The crowd gave a loud cheer, and left the house in good humour ; nor was there another window in the village broken through- out the night. Next day, James received the following letter from his son. It was dated Toulouse, April Ulh, 1814. " HoNouRKD Father and Mothsr — I hope this wiU find you and my dear sister well, as it leaves me, thank Pro- vidence for it. I think this war will soon be over now ; for, whatever you may think of the French and their fight- ing, father, we have driven them from pillar to post, and from post to piUar, as the saying is. Not but that they are brave fellows, and clever fellows too ; but we can beat them, and that is everything. Soult is one of their best generals, if not their very best ; and though he was in his own coun- try, and had his positions all of his o^ti choosing, i assure you, upon the word of a soldier, that wo have beaten hira out and out, twice within this fortnight ; but, if you still get the newspaper, you will have seen something about it. Yon must not expect me to give you any very particular accounts about what has taken place ; for a single soldier just sees and knows as much about a battle as the spoke of a mill-wheel knows about the com which it causes to be ground. I may here, also, while I remember, tell you what my notions of bravery are. Some people talk about courageous men, and braving death, and thjs and that ; but, so far as 1 have seen and felt, it is all talk — nothing but talk. There are very few Euch cowards as to run away, or not to do their duty, (indeed to run away from the ranks during an action would be no easy matter,) but I believe I am no coward — I daresay you think the same thing ; and the best man in all T durst not call me one^' but I will teU'you how I felt when I first entereda battle >JV'e were inder arms — I saw a part of the enemy's lines bctore us — we were ordered to advsince — I knew that in ten minutes the work of death would begin, and I felt — not faintish, but some way confoundedly hke it The first firing commenced by the advanced wing ; at th« report, my knees shook, (not visibly,) and my heart leaped withi: lutf. .\ cold sweat fa sli^-ht one') broke over me. J no TALES OF THE BORDERS. remomljcrUie sensation. A second dlscliorgc took place — tbe work was at hand — something seemed to crack within mv ears. I felt I don't know how ; but it was not courageous, though, as to running a way or being beaten, the thought never entered my head. Only I did not feel like what you read about heroes. Well, the word ' Fire was given to our own regiment. The drum of my ear actually felt as if it were split. IMy heart gave one terrible bound, and I felt it no more. For a few moments all was ringing of the ears, smoke, and confusion. I forgot everything about death. The roar of the action had become general — through its dinlat inter- vals heard the sounds of the drum and the fife. But my ears instantly became, as it were, 'cased.' I could hear nothing but tho word of command, save a hum, hum, something like a swarm of bees about to settle round my head. I saw no- thing, and I just loaded as I was ordered, and fired — fired — fired ! — as insensible, for all the world, as if I had been on a parade. Two or three of my neighbours were shot to the right and left ; but the ranks were filled up in a twink- ling, and it was not every time that I observed whether they were killed or wounded. But, as 1 say, after the third firing or so, I hardly knew whether I was deader living ; I acted in a kind of way mechanically, as it were, through a sort of dumfoundcred desperation, or anj'thing else ye like to call it ; and if this be courage, it's not the sort of courage that I've heard and read about — but it's the only kind of courage I f^lt on entering on my first engagement, and, as I have said, there are none that would dare to call me coicard! But, as I was telling ye, we have twice completely beaten Soult within these fourteen days. We have driven them out of Spain ; and, but for the bad winter weather, we would have driventhem through France before now. But wehavedriven them into France ; and, as I said, even in their own country, we have beaten them twice. Soult had his army all drawn up and ready, upon a rising ground, before a town they call Ortbics. I have no doubt but ye have some idea of what sortof winter it has been, and that may lead you to judge of what sort of roads we have had to wade through in a coun- try like this ; and that we've come from where nobody ever had to complain of being imprisoned for the destroying of toll-bars ! I think that was the most foolish and diabolical action ever any person in our couretry was guilty of. But, besides the state of the roads, we had three rivers to cross before we could reach the French. However, we did cross them. General Picton, with the third division of the armv, crossed or forded what they call the Garede Paw on the 20"th of last month, and we got over tbe river on the follow- ing da_y. Our army completed their positions early in the afternoon, and Lord Wellington (for he is a prompt man) immediately began to give Soult notice that he must seek different quarters for the night. Well, the action began, and a dreadful and sanguinary battle it was. Our third division suffered terribly. But we drove the French from their tieights — we routed them. We thus obtained possession of the navigation of tho Adour, one of the principal commer- cial passages in France ; and Soult found there was nothing left but to retreat, as he best might, to Toulouse, (from whence I write this letter,) and there we followed him ; and from here, too, though after hard fighting, we forced him to run for it. You may say what you like, father, but Lord Wellington is a first-rate general — though none of us over- and-above like him, for he is terribly severe ; he is a disci- plinarian, soul and body of him, and ;i rigid one. We have beaten all Buonaparte's generals ; and I shoiiU! like to meet with him, just to see if we can beat him too Vou used to talk so much about him, that if I live to get to Paris, 1 shall see him, though I give a shilling for it. What 1 mean by that is, thntlthink the game is up with him; and four or five Irish soldiers, of my acquaintance, havclhougbt it an t-KC'-dlent speculation to club together, and to offer the Em- <;oror Alexander and the rest of thcL" (who. I dare say will be very glad to get rid of him on cheap terms,) a price for liim,and to bring him over to Britain, and exhibit him round the country, at so much a-head" " O depravity ! — depravity!" cried James, rising in a fury, and flinging the letter from him — " Oh, that a bairn o' mina should be capable o' pennin' sic disgracfu' language !" Lie would allow no more of the letter to be read — he said his son had turned a mere reprobate ; he would never own him more. A few weeks after this, Catherine, the daughter of ou old Leveller, was married to a j'oung weaver, named William Crawford, who then wrought in the neighbourhood of Stir- ling. He was a man according to James' own heart ; for he had wrought in the same shop with him, and, when a boy, received his principles from him. James, therefore, rejoiced in his daughter's marriage; and hesaid " there wasane o' his family — which wasna large — that hadna disgraced him." Yet he took the abdication and the exile of Napoleon ;' heart grievously. Jlany said that, if he could have raist the money, he wci/ld have gone to Elba to condole with thi exiled Emperor, though he should have begged for the re- mainder of his days. He went about mourning for his fate ; but, as tho proverb says, they who mourn for trifles or stran- gers may soon have more to mourn for — and so it was with James Nicholson. His son was abroad — his daughter had left his house, and removed to another part of the country^ and his wife fell sick and died. He felt all the solitariness of being left alone — be became fretful and unhappy. He said, that now he "hadna ane to do onythiiig for him." His health also began to fail, and to him peace brought neither plenty nor prosperity. The weaving trade grew worse and worse every day. James said he believed that prices would come to nothing. He gradually became less able to work, and his earnings were less and less. He was evidently drooping fast. But the news arrived that Napoleon had left Elba — that he had landed in France — that ho was on his way to Paris — that he had entered it — that the Bourbons had fled; and the eyes of James again sparkled with joy, and he went about rubl)ing bis hands, and again exclaiming^ " Oh, the great — the godlike man ! — the beloved of the peo- ple ! — the conqueror of hearts as well as countries! he is returned ! — he is returned ! Everything will go well again !" During " the hundred davs," James forgot all his sorrow and all his solitariness ; like the eagle, he seemed to have renewed his youth. But the tidings of Waterloo arrived. " Treachery ! foul treachery ! " cried the old man, when he heard them ; and he smote his handupon his breast. But he remembered that his son was in that battle. He had not heard from him — he knew not but that he was numbered with the slain — he feared it, and he became tenfold more unhappy and miserable than before. A few months after the battle, a wounded soldier arrived at T , to recruit his health amongst his friends. He had enlisted with George, he had sorved in the same regi- ment, and seen him fall at the moment the cry of " The Prussians !" was raised. " My son ! — my poor son !" cried the miserable fatlier, " and it is my doing — it is .i' mine — I drove him to list ; and how can 1 live wi' tl.e murder o' my poor George upon my head?" His distress became deeper and more deep; his health and strength more rapidly declined ; he was unable to work, and he began to be in want. About this period, also, he was attacked with a paralytic stroke, which deprived him of the use of bis right arm ; and he was re- luctantly compelled to remove to Stirlingshire, and become an inmate in tbe house of bis daughter. It was a sad 'jrief to his proud spirit to feel himself a bur- den upon hischihl; but she and her husband strove anxiously ' to soothe him, and to render him happy. He was still re- siding with them when the Radical meetings took place in various parts of the country, and especially in the west ot TALES OF THE BORDERS^ HI Scotlap;), in 1(119. James contenipi.ited them wlh ili'liglit. lie said tiie spirit of liberty was castiiifj its face upon his countrymen — they were boj^iimin^ to tliiiill like men, and to understand the principles wliidi he had ijloried in, through Cood report and thr(iii;;li li;id report — yeu, and tliromjh per- secution, for more than half a century. A meeting was to take place near Stirling, and James was sorrowful that he was unable to attend ; but his son-in-law was to be present, and James chari^ed him, that he would bring him a faithful accc-nnt of all the proceedings. Cathe- rine knew little aboiit the ])iir.cinles of her father, or her husl)and, or the object of the mooting. She asked if it would make wages any higher ; but she had heard that the military would be called out to disperse it — that government would punish those who attended it, and her fears were c.vcited. " Tak my advice, Willie," said she to her husband, as he went towards the door, "tak a wife's advice for ance, mid dinna gang near it. There will nae gude come out o't. Ye can mak naething bv it ; hut will lose bailh time and money ; and I understand that it is likely great danger will atlend it, and ye may be brought into trouble. Sao, dinna pang, Willie, like a guid lad — if ye liae ony regard for me, dinna gang." " Really, Katie," said Willie, who was a good-natured ^an, "ye talk very silly ; but ye're just like a' the women, linny — their outcry is aye about expense and danger. But dinna ye trouble yoursel — it's o' nae use to be put about for the death ye'll ne'er die. I'll he hame to my four-hours." " The lassie's silly," said her father, " wherefore should he no gang? — It is the duty o' every m.an to gang th.it is able ; and sorry am I that I am not, or I wad liae rejoiced to hae stood forth this day, as a chamjiion, in the great cause o' liberty." So, William Crawford, disregarding the remonstrances of his wife, wont to the meeting. But while the people were yet assembling, the military were called out — the riot act was read — and the soldiers fired at or over the multitude. Instant confusion took place — there was a running to and fro, and the soldiers pursued. Several were wounded, and some seriouslv. The news that the meeting had been dispersed, and that several were wounded, were brought to James Nicholson and his daughter as they sat waiting the return of her hus- baad. " Oh ! I trust in goodness, that naething has happened to AVilliam !" she exclaimed. " But what can be stopping Lim ? Oh ! had he but ta'en my advice — had ye no per- suaded him, faithor ; hut ye was waur than him." Jiimes made no reply. A gloomy apprehension, that "something had happened," was stealing over his mind. lie took his staff, and walked forward, as far as he was able, upon the road ; but, after waiting for two hours, and after fruitless inquiries at every one he mot, he returned, having beard nothing of his son-in-law. His daughter, with three children around her, sat weeping before the fire, lie endea- voured to comfort her, and to inspire her with hopes which be did not himself feel, and to banish fears from her bre.a.st which he himself entertained. Night set in, and, with its darkness, their fears and their anxiety increased. The children wept more bitterly as the distress of their mother became stronger — they raised their little hands, they pulled her go^Ti, and they called for their father. A cart stopped at the door, and ^Villiam Crawford, with his arm bound up, was carricil into his house by strangers. Catherine screamed when she beheld him, and the children cried "*ildly. Old James met them at the door, and said, " O William !" lie had been found by the side of a hedge, fainting from loss of blood. A bullet had entered his arm below the shoulder — the bone was sjdintered — and, on a surgeon being sent for, he declared that immediate amputation was necessary. Poor Catherine and her little ones were taken mlo the house of a neighbour while the operation was to l>e performed, and even her father ^-ad not i:erve lo look oa il William sat c.dmly, and beheld the surgeon an.l his a.ssista.-.t make their preparations, and when the former took the knife in his hand, the wounded man thought not of bodily pain, but the feelings of the father and the husband gusheJ fortlu " Oh !" he exclaimed, " hail it been my leg, it wad hae been nathing ; but my arm — I will tx! heljile.ss for life. ^V'hat am I to do now for my poor Katie and my bitso' bairns? fiuid gracious ! I canna beg ! — and auld James, poor body, what will come owre him ? O, Sir !" added he, addressing the surgecm, " 1 could bear to hae my arm cut through in twenty different places, were it not that it deprives me o' the power o' working for bread for my family." " Keep a stout heart, my good fellow," said the surgeon, us he began his task ; " they will be provided for in some way." " (irant it may be sae ! ' answered William ; " but I get naething for us but to beg." I must here, however take back my reader to 1815, and, from the neighbourhood of Stirling direct their attention to Brussels and \\'atcrloo. George NVashington Nicholsorj, after the battle of Toulouse, had been appointed to the ranK of Sergeant. For several months he was an inmate in the house of a thriving merchant in Brussels ; he had assisted him in his business ; he, in fact, acted as his chief clerk and his confident ; he became as one of the family, and nothing was done by the Belgian trader without consulting .Sergeant Nicholson. But the fearful night of the l.")th of June arrived, when the sounds of the pibroch rang through the streets of Brus- sels, startling soldier and citi/.en, and the raven and the owl were invited to a feast. The name of Napoleon was pro- nounced by tongties of every nation. " He comes ! — he comes !" was the cry. George Nicholson was one of the first to array himself for battle, and rush forth to join his regiment. He bade a hurried farewell to his host ; but there was one in the house whose hand trembled when he touched it, and on whoselipshe p.a.ssionately breathed his abrupt adieu. It was the gentle Louise, the sole daughter of his host. The three following days were dreadful days in Brussels- confusion, anxiety, dismay, prevailed in every street ; they were pictured in every countenence. On one hand were crowded the wounded from the battle, on the other were citizens flying from the town to save their goods and them- selves, and, in their general eagerness to escape, blocking up their flight. Shops were shut, houses deserted, and churches turned into hospitals. But, in the midst of all — every hour, and more frequently — there went a messenger from the house of the merchant with whom Sergeant Nicholson had lodged, to the Porte de Ncimur, to inquire how fared it with the Highlanders, to examine the caravans with the wounded as they arrived, and to inquire at the hospitals if one whom Louise named, had been brought there. Never was a Sabbath spent in a more unchristian manner than that of the 18th June 1815, on the plains of Waterloo. At night the news of the success of the Britith arrived in Brussels, and before sunrise on the following m.orning the merchant in whose house George Nicholson had been lodged, drove through the Porte dc Nnmur, with hisdaughter Louisa by his side. At every step of their journey appalling spec- tacles presented themselves before them ; and, as they pro- ceeded, they became more and more horrible. They were compelled to quit their vehicle, for the roads were blocked up, and proceeded through the forest t/e Sognes, into which m;uiy of the wounded had crawled to die, or to escape being trampled on by the pain-maddened horses. On emerging from the forest, the disgusting shambles of war, with its hu- man carcases, its blood, its wounded, and its dying, spread all its horrors before them. From the late rains, the field was as a mor.iss. Conquerors, and the conquered, were covered with mud. Here hi^' heap' of dead — there, soldier lis TALES OF THE BORDERS. and citizen dug pits to bury them in crowds, and thej were hurled into a common grave, " Utiknelled, uncoffined, and unknown." Let the eyes turn where they would, there the ghastly sight of the wounded met them ; nor could the ear be rendered deif to the groans of the dying, and the cry from every quarter, ard in every tongue, of—" Water !— water !"— for the wounded were perishing from thirst, and their throats were parched, and their tongues dry. There, too, prowled the plunderer, robbing the dead— the new-made widow sought her husband, and the mother her son. To and fro rushed hundreds of war-horses, in foam, and in agony, with- out curb or rider — others lay kicking and snorting on the ground, their broad chests heaving with the throes of de- parting life, and struggling as though they thought them- selves stronger than death. Louise and her father were shewn to the positions that had been occupied by the Higldand regiments. They in- quired of every one whom they met, and who wore the garb of old Scotland, if they could tell them aught of the fate of Serjeant Nicholson ; but they shook their heads, and answer- ed, " No." Louise was a beautiful and interesting girl, and the bloom of nineteen summers blushed on her cheeks ; but they were now pale, and her dark eyes were bedimmed with tears. She leaned upon her father's arm, and they were passing near a field of rye, which was trodden down as though a scythe had been passed over it. Many dead and dying Highlanders lay near it. Before them lay a wounded man, whose face was covered, and disfigured with blood— he was gasping for water, and his glazed eyes were unconcious of the earnestness and affection with which they gazed on him. " It is he ! — it is he !" cried.Louise. It was indeed George Nicholson. ' He liv -he breathes !" she continued. She bent over him — she raised his head— she applied a cordial to his lips. He swallowed it eagerly. His eyes began to move— a glow of consciousness kindled in them. With the assistance of her father, she washed, and bound up his wounds, and the latter having procured a litter, he had him conveyed to his house at Brussels, and they accompanied him by the way. Louise watched over him ; and, in a few days, his wounds were pronounced to be no longer dangerous, though he reco- vered slowly, and he acknowledged the affection of his gentle deliverer with the tears of gratitude, and the glance of love. As soon as he had acquired strength to use a pen, he wrote a letter to his father, but he received no answer— a second time he wrote, and the result was the same. He now believed, that, because he had been an humble instru- ment in contributing to the fall of a man, in whose great- ness his father's soul was wrapt up, he had cast him off, and disowned him. The father of Louise obtained his discharge, and entrust- ed him with the management of his business. He knew that his daughter's heart was attached, with all a woman's devotedness, to the young Scotchman, and he knew that his affection for her was not less ardent. He knew also his worth ; he had profited by his integrity and activity in busi- ness ; and when the next anniversary of Waterloo came, he bade them be happy, and their hands were united. There was now but one cloud which threw a shade over khe felicity of George Nicholson, and that was, that he had never heard from his parents, and that his father would not »cknowledge his letters ; yet he suspected not the cause. Almost six years had passed since he becan-e the Imsband >f Louise, vet his heart yearned after the place of his birth, and in the 'dreams of the nig'ht his spirit revisited it. He I KTcA once more to hear his mothers voice, to grasp his fS's hand, to receive a sister's welcome. But, more tlian these he was now rich, and he wished to remove them from penury to crown their declining years with ease and with pienty — nor coald a son entertain a more honourable ambi- tion, or more one meriting the blessing of Heaven. Taking Louise with him, they sailed from Antwerp, and m a few days arrived in London, from thence they pro- ceeded towards the Borders, and the place of his birth. They had reached Alnwick, where they intended to remain for b, few hours, and they went out to visit the castle. They had entered the square in front of the proud palace of the Percys, and, in the midst of the square, they observed a one-handed flute-player, with a young wife, and three ragged children, by his side, and the poor woman was soliciting alms for her husband's music. The heart of Louise was touched ; she had drawn out her purse, and the wife of the flute-player, with her children in her hand, modestly, and without speaking, curtsied before her. George shook — he started — he raised his hands— " Catherine I — my sister ! — my own sister 1" he exclaim» ed, grasping the hand of the supplicant. " O George ! — my brother !" cried Catherine, and wept. The flute-player looked around. The instrument feU from his hand. " What I — William ! — and without an arm, too !" added George, extending his hand to the musician. Louise took the hand of her new found sister, and smiled, and wept, and bent down, and kissed the cheeks of her children. " My father — my mother, Catherine .''" inquired George, in a tone that told how he trembled to ask the question. She informed him of their mother's death, of their father'* infirmities, and that he was then an out-door pauper ii T He relieved his sister's wants, and, with Louise, hastened to his birth-place. lie found his father almost bed-ridden— a boarder at half-a-crown a-week, in a miserable hovel, the occupants of which were as poor as their parish lodger. Old James was sitting reading a newspaper, which he had borrowed, when they entered ; for his ruling passion remain- ed strong in the midst of his age and infirmities. The rays of the setting sun were falling on his grey hairs. Tears had gathered in the eyes of his son, and he inquired — " Do you know me ?" James suddenly raised his eyes — they flashed with eager joy — he dropped the paper — • " Ken ye ! ken ye ! — my son ! my son ! — my loot George !" and he sank on his son's bosom. When the first burst of joy had subsided — " And wha is this sweet leddy ?" inquired James, gazing fondly at Louise. " Vour daughter," replied George, placing her hand in his. I need not further dwell upon the history of the Leveller. From that hour he ceased to be a pauper — he accompanied his son to Brussels, and spent the remainder of his days in peace, and amidst many of the scenes which he had long before read of with enthusiasm. But, some reader may ask, what became of poor Cathe- rine and her flute-player? A linen-draper's shop was taken and stocked for them by her brother, and in it Prosperity became a constant customer. Such is the history of James Nicholson, the Leveller, and his cliildren. THE LEVELLER. VOL I. P. 112. V,l LISRAtW mmmm of illibois WILSON'S TALES OF THE BOllDEllS. THE BRIDE. Fifty years ago, AVilllam Percy rontod a farm that con- sistoil of about a liiiinlrod acres, ami whicli was situatcil on tlio banks of tbo Till. His wil'o, though not rcinarhablo tor hor managonicnt of a farm house, was a woman of many virtues, and [lossossoil of a kind and aflectionato heart. 'I'hoy had an only daughter, whoso name was Agnes; and, as she approached towards womanhood, people began to desig- nate her The lioso of TUl-siJe. Her beauty was not of tho kind that dazzles or excites sudilen admiration ; but it grow upon tho sight like the increasing brightness of a young rainbow — its inlluonco stole over the soul as moonlight on the waters. It was pleasant to look upon her fair counte- nance, where sweetness gave a character to beauty, mellow- ing it and softening it, as though the soul of innocence there rcllocted its imago. i[any said that no one could look up- on tho faco of Agnes Percy and sin. ller hair was of the lightest brown, her eyes of the softest blue, and tho lovoly rose which bears the name of Maiden's Blush is not more delicate in the soft glow of its colouring than was tho ver- milion tint upon her checks. She was of middle stature, and her liguro might have served a sculptor as a model. But she was good and gentle as sho was beautiful. Tho widow uicntioned her name in her prayers — the poor blessed her. Now Agnes was about eighteen, when a young man of her own age, named PIcnry Cranstoun, took up his resi- dence for a few months in her father's house. IIo was the soil of a distant relative of her mother, and was then articled (IS a clerk or apprentice to a writer to the signet in Edin- burgh. Ho also was tho only child of hia parents; for, though they had had eight others, he w.as all that death had left them. Ho was the youngest son of his mother; and lliero was a time when there was no mother had greater cause to be proud of her children. Yea, as they hand in hanarents to their place of worship, there was not an cyo that looked not with deligiit or admiration on tho lit- tle Cranstouiis. The neatness of their dress, the loveliness of every countenance, the family likeness of each, the app.a- rcnt allcction of all, the propriety of their demeanour, in- terested all who looked upon them. But as untimely flowers, that by a returning frost are stricken down in beauty, so drooped, so perished, this fair and happy family. Some had said that they were too beautiful to live ; and, as they also manifested much quickness and wisdom for their years, there were others who said to JIrs Cranstoun, as sho was shedding their shining hair upon their brows, that sho would never comb an ohl head I This is a cold, cruel, and ignorant pro- phecy — it has sent foreboding and unhajipincss into the bosom of many a fond mother ; but, in this case, it needed not tho gift of a seer to foretell tho gloomy tidings. Con- Bumptiou hirked amidst the beauty that glowed on ovcry cheek ; and seven of the fair family had fallen victims to the progress of the insidious destroyer, till Henry alone was left. And now, oven upon him also, it seemed to have sot its mark. The hollow cough and tho flushed cheek, tho languidness by day and tho restlessness by night, gave evidence that the dis- ease was there. Change of air and leas study were rccommcndeo thrown into what company they may, let temptation assail them in every form, and absence throw its shadows over their father's house, yet the remembrance, the fervour, the words of a father's prayers, will desceud upon their souls liko a whisper from Heaven, kindling the memory and awakening the conscience ; and, if the child of £ucli a man depart into sin, the small still voice will not die in his ear. Nay, the remembrance of the father's voice will be heard in the son's heart above the song of the bacchanal, and the lowly remembered voice of psalms rise upon his memory, making him insensible to the peal of instruments. I have lis- tened to the sonorous swell of the organ m the Koman church and the Episcopal cathedral, to the chant of the choristers and the music of the anthem, ami I have been awed by the sounds ; but they produced not the feelings of peace and of reverence, I might say of religion, which are inspired by the lowly voices of a congregated family joining together in their hymn of praise. I have thought that such sounds, striking on the ear of the guilty, would arrest them in their pro- gress. Such was the change which Henry Cranstoun introduced into the house of his host. From that moment, Agnes re- garded him with a deeper interest, her father loved him, and her mother looked on him as a son. But, although hia mind had been early imbued with serious impressions, ho was a lover of all that w.as beautiful in nature — he w.ts warm of heart and eloquent of speech — and his form was such as the eye of a maiden might look on with complacency. Christmas had passed before he left the house of his mother's friend, and health again glowed on his cheeks, strength revisited his frame. No one that saw Henry Cranstoun upon his entering the house of Mr Percy three months before, and who had not seen him in the meanwhile, would have known him to be the same individual. But Agnes noted no change in him. She knew that his health was now restored ; but she had begun to hope and love at the same moment, and she had never thought that Henry would die. His eyes had ever been bright to her — his voice ever pleasing; and her beauty, her gentleness, her sweet- ness of temper, her kindness, her looks, her tones of affec- tion, had fallen upon his bosom, till every thought, save the thought of Agnes, was banished. He was to leave her father's house — he bade her fare- well ; till that moment, they had not known how dear they were unto each other. They had never spoken of love— and, to hearts that do love, there is little need for such deolarations. The affection of every glance, the gu-arded delicacy of every action, speaks it more plainly than the impassioned eloquence of language. True eloquence is feeling, and feeling dictates the words to be used, pouring them forth in the full tide of the heart's emotion ; but, though love also be feeling, it is not of that kind which makes men eloquent. True love ia dumb aa true gratitada TALES OF THE BOKDEUa ilS rt Bpciiks from tlio glowing- ovo ami tlio tliroliliiiif; hosom ; 'rom tlio liaiul passionately gnispoil — not from tlio tonguo. Iloury ami Agnes saiil littlo ; but tlioy foil uiion tlio nocks of each other when they jiaiteil. Sho wopt, and from his oyos tlio tear was ready to fall. ]lo k'sscj her brow, anil saiil that in the spring ho woiiM return. llo loft Northiiniherlaii(l, and his parents welcotuoil liini IS one recoivod from tho dead. lie was strong and healthy, Hnd ho alono, of all their chihlren, seemed to liavo overcome tho [lower of tho destroyer. Yet a week never passed but tio wrote to his friends, who ha]iy now ! — Olt, liniid my head! Tins gift o' joy is like to be my dead.' " " I hope no, Peter,' said she; ' I wad rather hao ye to live than dec for mc.' " I thocht she was as sensible as she was bonny, and better natured th.an baith. " Weel, I got the house set up, the wedding-day cam, anil everything passed ower .as aj^reeably as onybody could desire. 1 thocht Tihby turnin' bonnier and bonnier. For the first five or six days after the weddin', everything was ^hinny, and '■my lore,' and ' Tihh;i, dca?;' or '■Peter, dear.' But matters didna stand lang at this. It was on a Saturday iiiclit, I mind, just afore I was ga-in to drap work, that throe or four acquaintances cam into the shop to wush me joy, and they insisted I should pay ofT for tlio weddin'. Yo kon I never was beliint hand ; and I agreed that I wad just lling on my coat ami step up wi' them to Orange Lane. So I gaed into the house and took down my market coat, which was hingin' behiiit the bed ; and after that I gaed to the kist to tak out a shilling or twa ; for, up to that time, Tihby bad not usuriieil the oillco of Chancellor o' the Esche- qnor. I did it as eannily as I could; but she had suspected something, and heard the jinkin' o' the siller. "'What are ye doing, Patic ?' says she— " wliar are ye gaun ?' " I liad never heard her voice line sic a sound afore, save the first time I drew up to Lcr, when it was rather sharp than agreeable. "'On, my dear,' says I, 'I'm just gaun up to Orange Lane a wee \\liile.' "•To Orange Lano!" says she — 'what in the name o fnrtune's gaun to take yo there?' " ' O hinny,' says I, ' it's just a nccbor lad or twa that's drappi'il in to wush us joy, and, yo ken, wo cunua but be neohor-liko.' " ' Ay ! the sorrow joy them !' says sho, ' and ucubor too ! — an' how meiUlo will that cost yo ?' " ' Hoot, Tihby,' says I, ' for 1 was quite astonished at her, ' yo nil unilerstaiid things, woman.' "'No unilerstaiiil them!' says she; *I wish lo guidness that yo wad understand them though ! If that's the way ye intend to mak' the siller flee, it's time there were sonio- hody to tak' care o't." " I lia- penod ye ?' "But she sat looking into the fire, and never let-on she heard me. ' E'ens yo like, Meg Dorts,' thought I, as Allan Ramsay says ; but I durstna s.ay it, for I saw that there was " a storm browing. At last, I ventured to say again — " ' What ails ye, Tibby, dear — are ye no weel ?' "'Weel!' cried she — 'wha can he weel? Is this the way ye mean to carry on? What a time o' nicht is this to keep a body to, waiting and fretting on o' ye, their lane. Do you no think shame o' yoursel' ?' " ' Hoot, woman,' says I, ' I'm surprised at ye ; I'm sui j ye hao naething to mak a waik about — it's no late yet.' "'I dinna ken what yo ca' late,' said she; 'it wadna be late among yer cronies, nao doubt; but if it's no late, it's early, for I warrant it's morniu'.' " ' Nonsense !' says I. " ' Dinna tell me its nonsense,' said she, 'for I'll bo spo- ken to in na sic way — I'll let you ken that. But how nieikle has it cost ye ? Ye wad be treating them, nae doubt — and how meiklo hao ye spent, if it be a fair question ?' " ' Toots, Tibby !' said I, ' wliar's the cause for a' this ? What great deal could it cost me ?' "'But hair by hair makes the carlo's head bare, added she — ' mind ye that ; and mind yo that yc've a house to keep aboon your head noo. But, if ye canna do it, I maun do it for ye — say gie me the key o' that kist — gie me it instantly; and I'll tak care how ye gang drinkiu' wi' ony body and treatiii' them till mornin' again.' " For the sake o' peace I gicd her the key ; for she was speakin' sae loud that I thocht a' the neebors wad '•ca-- and she bad nae suner got it, than awa she gaed to 118 TALES OF THE BORDERS. the kist and counted every slulling. I liaJ nao great abun- dance then niair than IVo now ; and — "'Is that a' ye liac?' said she; 'an' yet ye'll think o' pann drinkin' and treatin' folk frao Saturday nicht till Sabbath mornin' ! If this is the life ye intend to lead, I wush to guiduess I had ne'er bad onything to say to ye.' " ' And if this is the life ye intend to lead mo,' thought I, I wush the same thing." " But that was but the beginnin' o' my slavery. From tliat hour to this she has continued on from bad to worse. No man livin' can form an idea o' what I've suffered but mysel". In a mornin', or rather, I may say, in a forenoon, fur it w.as aye nine or ten o'clock afore she got up, she sat doun to her tea and white scones and butter, while I had to bo content wi' a scrimpit bicker o' broso and sour milk for kitchen. Nor was this the warst o't ; for, when I cam' in frae my wark for my breakfast, mornin' after mornin', the fire was black out ; and there had I, before I could get a bite to put in my mouth, to bend doun upon my knees and blaw it, and blaw'it, till I was half-blind wi' ashes — for we hadna a pair o' bellowses ; and there wad she lie grumblin' a' the time, ca'in' me useless lAis, and useless thai ; and I just had to put up wi' it. But, after our first bairn was born she grew far warse, and I becam mair and mair miserable every ilay. If I had been sleeping through the nicht, and the bairn had begun a hickin', or whingin' — then she was at the Bcoldin', and I was sure to be started out o' my sleep wi' a great drive atweon the shouthers, and her crying — "' Got up, ye lazy body, yo — got up, and see what's the niaitcr wi' this bairn.' '' An" this was the trade half-a dizen o' times in a nicht. " At last, there was ae day, when a' that I had dune was simply saying a word about the denner no bein' ready, and afore ever I kenned whar I was, a cracky-stool that she liad bought for the bairn cam' fleein' across the room, and gied mo a dirl on the elbow, that made me think my arm was broken. Ye may guess what a stroke it was, when I tell ye I couldna lift my hand to my head for a week to come. Noo, the like o' that, yo ken, was what mortal man couldna stand. " ' Tibby,' said I, and I looked very desperate and deter- mined, ' what do ye mean by this conduct ? By a' that's gracious, I'll no put up wi' it ony langer !' "'Ye'll no put up wi' it, ye cratur !' said she ; ' if ye gle me ony mair o' yer provocation, I'll pu' yer lugs for ye — wuU ye put up wi' that ?' " It was terrible for a man to hear bis ain wife ca' him a cratur ! — just as if I had been a monkey or a lapdoug ! "'O yo disilainfu' limmer,' thought I; 'but if I could humble your proud spirit, I wad do it !' AVeel, there was a grand now ballant hawkin' about the country at the time — it was ca'd Watty and Meg — yo have nae doubt seen't. !Meg was just such a terrible termagant as my Tibby ; and I remembered the perfect reformation that was wrought upon her by Watty's bidding her farwcol, and threatenin' to list. So it just struck nie that I wad talc a leaf out o' the ballant. Therefore, keeping the same serious and de- termined look, for I was in no humour to seem otherwise — ' Tibby,' says I, ' there shall be nae mair o" this. But I win gang and list this very day, and ye'll see what will come ower ye then — ye'll maybe repent o' yer conduct whan it's ower late. " ' List ! yo latum yo I' saiil she ; ' do ye say list ?' and alio said this in a tone and wi' a look o' derision that gacd through my very soul. ' What S(|uad will yc list into ? — wliat regiment will tak ye? Do ye intend to list for a fifer laddie?' Anliraso signifjing that a smuggling vessel had delivered her rgt>. 16 Vol. I. and neatness about his bouse. It consisted of three rooms; l)ut it also bore the distinguishing marks of a smuggler's habitation. At the door hung the hand-line, the hooks, and the creel; and, in a corner of Harry's sleeping room, a "keg'" was occasionally visible ; while over the chimney-piece hung a cutlass and four horse-pistols, and in a cupboard there were more packages of jiowder and i)istol bullets than it became a man of peace to have in his possession. But the third room, which he called ids daughter's, contained emblems of peace and happiness. Around the walls were specimens of curious ueedle-work, the basket of fruit and of flowers, and the landscape — the " sampler" setting fortli the genea- logy of the family for three generations, and the age of iier whose fair hands wrought it. Around the window, also, carefully trained, were varieties of the geranium and the rose, the bigonia and cressula, the aloe, and tho ice-jilant, with others of strange leaf and lovely colouring. This Harry called his daughter's room — and ho was proud of her. Siio was bis solo thought, his only boast. His weather- beaten countenance always glowed, and there wns something like a tear in his eyes, when bespoke of " my Fanny.' She h.ad littlo in common with the daughter of a fisherman ; for his neighbours said that her mother had made her unfit for anything, and that Harry was worse than her mother had been. But that mother was no more, and she had left their only child to her widowed husband's care ; and, rough as ho appeared, never was there a more tender or a more anxious parent, never had there been a more affectionate husband. But I may here briefly notice tho wife of Harry Teasdalo, and his first acquaintance with her. When Harry was a youth of one-and-twcnty, and as lie and others of his comrades wcro one day preparing their nets upon the sea-banks for the north herring-fishing, a hitter hurricane came suddenly away, and they observed that the mast of a Scotch smack, which was then near the Feme Isles, was carried overboard. The sea was breaking over her, and tho vessel was unmanageable; but the wind being fronj the north-east, sho was driving towards the shore. Harry and his friends ran to get their boats in readiness, to render assintance if possible. The smack struck the ground be- tween Embleton and North Sunderland, and being driven side-on by tho force of tho billows, which were dashing over her, formed a sort of break-water, which rendered it less dangerous for a boat to put off to tho assistance of tho pas- sengers and crew, who wore seen clinging in despair to the flapping ropes and sides of the vessel. Harry's coble was launched along the beach to whero the vessel was stranded, and he and six others attempted to roach her. After many ineffectual effort.s, and much danger, they gained her side, and a rope was thrown on board. Amongst the smack's pas- sengers was a Scottish gentleman, with his family, and their governesa She was a beautiful creature, apparently not ex- ceeding nineteen ; and as she stood upon the deck, with one hand clinging to a rope, and in the other clasping a child to her side, her countenance alone, of all on board, did not be- token terror. In the midst of the storm, and through the raging of the sea, Harry was struck with her appearance. She was one of the last to leave the vessel ; and when she liad handed tho child into the arms of a fisherman, and was her- self in the act of stepping into the boat, it lurched, the ves- sel rocked, a sea broke over it, sho missed her footing, and was carried away upon the wave. Assistance ap])cared im- possible. The spectators on the shore, and tho people in the boat, uttered a scream. Harry dropped the helm, he 6pruD| from the boat he bufTctcd the boiling surge, and, after* hop«- 122 TALES OF THE BORDERS. less slru^r'^'lo, lie clulclioil Uicliand of iho sinking girl. lie Loro tier to the boat — tliey were lifted iuto it. "Keeptlio lielni, Nod," said lie, addressing one of Ids comrades who had taken his place ; " I must look after this poor girl — one of the seamen will take your oar." And she lay insensible, with her head upon his bosom, and his arm around her waist. Consciousness returned before they reached the shore, and ITarry had her conveyed to his mother's house. It is difficult for a sensitive girl of nineteen to look with indifference upon a man who has saved her life, and who risked his in doing so ; and Eleanor Blacdonald (for such was the name of the young governess) did not look with indifference upon Harry Tcasdalc. I might tell you how the shipwrecked party re- mained for five days at Embleton, and how, during that period, love rose in the heart of the young fisherman, and gratitude warmed into afToction in the breast of Eleanor — liow ho discovered that she was an orphan, with no friend, save the education which her parents had conferred on her, .and how ho loved her the more, when he heard that she was friendless and alone in the world — how the tear was on his hardy cheek when tliey parted — how more than once he went many miles to visit her — and how Eleanor Macdonald, forsaking the refinements on the society of which she was a dependent, became tho wife of the Northumbrian fisherman. But it is not of Harry's younger days that I am now about to write. Throughout sixteen happy years they lived to- gether ; and though, when the tempests blew and the storms raged, while his skiff was on tho waves, she often shed tears for his sake, yet, though her education was superior to his, Ids conduct and conversation never raised a blush to her checks. Harry was also proud of his wife, and he shewed his pride, by spending every moment he could command at her side, bj' listening to her words, and gazing on her face ■with delight. But she died, leaving him an only daughter as the remembrancer of their loves ; and to that daughter she had imparted all that she herself knew. Besides his calling as a fisherman, and his adventures as a smuggler on sea, Harry also made fre(iuent inland excur- sions. These were generally performed by night, across the wild moor, and by the most unfrequented paths. A strong black horse, remarkable for its swiftness of foot, was tho constant companion of his midnight journeys. A canvass bag, fastened at both ends, and resembling a wallet, was invariably placed across the back of the animal, and at each end of tho bag w.as a keg of br.andy or Hollands, while tho rider sat over these ; and behind him was a largo and rude portmanteau, containing packages of tea and tobacco. In his hand ho carried a strong riding-whip, and in the breast pocket of his greatcoat two horse-pistols, always laden and ready for extremities. These journeys frequently required several days, or rather nights, for their performance; for he carried his contraband goods to towns fifty miles distant, and on both sides of tho Border. The darker the night was, and tho more tempestuous, tho more welcome it was to Harry. He saw none of the beauties in the moon, on which poets dwell with admiration. Its light may have charms for the lovor, but it has none for tho snmggler. For twenty years he had carried on this mode of traffic with uninter- rupted success. lie had been frequently pursued ; but his good steed, aided by his knowledge of localities, had ever fiarried him beyond the reach of his eye, to examine it more minutely. He expected the lugger on the following night, and the cutter was an object of interest to Harry. As day began to brighten, be knelt down behind a sand bank, in order that he might take his observations, without the chance of being discovered ; and while he yot knelt he perceived a boat pulled from the side of the cutter towards the shore. At the first glance, lie descried it to be an Embleton coble, and before it proceeded far, he discovered to whom it belonged. He knew that tho owner was his enemy, though he had not the courage openly to acknowledge it, and in a moment the nature of hia errand to the cutter flashed through Harry's brain. " I see it ! — I see it all !" said the smuggler, dashing the telescope back into its case ; " the low, the skulking coward, to go blab upon a neighbour! But I'se have the weather- gage o' both o' them, or my name's not Harry Teasdale.'' So saying, he hastened home to his house — be examined his cutlass, his pistols, tho bullets, and the powder. "All's right," said tho smuggler, and he entered the room where his daughter slept. He laid his rough hand gently upon hers. " Fanny, love," said he, " thou knowest that I expect thf lugger to-night, and I don't think I shall be at home, and ] may'nt be all to-morrow ; but vou won't fret — like a good girl, I know you won't. Keep all right, love, till I be back, and say nothing." " Dear father," returned Fanny, who was now a lovely girl of eighteen, " I tremble for this life which we lead — as my poor mother said, it adds the punishment of the law to the dangers of tho sea." " Oh, don't mention thy mother, dearest !'' said the I smuggler, " or thou wilt make a child of thy father, when ho should be thinking of other things. Ah, Fanny! when I lost thy mother I lost everything that gave delight to] my heart. Since then, the fairest fields are to me no better : than a bare moor, and I have only thee, my love — only my Fanny, to comfort me. Soj thou wilt not cry now — thou wilt not distress thy father, wilt thou ? No, no I I know i thou wilt not. I shall bo back to thee to-morrow, love." More p.assod between the smuggler and his daughter — words of remonstrance, of tenderness, and assurance; and when ho bad left her, he again went to the beach, to wlier*-] his boat had just landed from the night's fishing. None ofl tho other boats had yet arrived. As he appproached, the-j crow said they "saw by his face there was somcliiiug ua-| pleasant in tho win ber face — for be doubted not but ber countenance was lovely as her form was handsome ; and he pictured dark eyes where the soul beamed, and the raven hair waved on the snowy temples, with the soft blue eyes where affection smiled, and the flaxen tresses were parted on the brow ; but be knew nol which might be like hers on whom his imagination dwelt. Many days passed ; and, during a part of each, Fanny sat beside bim to beguile his solitude. She read to bim ; they conversed together ; and tho words which fell from her lijis surprised and delighted bim. She also taught bim the use of the harp, and he was enabled to play a few tunes. Ko regarded her as a veiled angel, and bis desire to look upon her features each day became more difficult to control. He argued, that it was impossible to love one whose face he bad never seen — yet, when she was absent from his side, be was unhappy until ber return ; she bad become the one idea of bis thoughts — the spirit of his fancies ; he watched ber fair fingers as they glided on the harp — bis band shook when he touched them, and more than once he half raised it to untie the thick veil which hid her features from bim. But while such feelings passed through his mind, others of a kindred character had crept into the bosom of Fanny, and she sighed when she thought that, in a few weeks, she would see him no more, tliat even her face he might not sec and that her name he must never know ; and fears for ber father's safety mingled with the feelings which the stranger had awakened in ber bosom. She had beheld the anxietj that glowed in bis dark eyes — she had listened to bis im- passioned words — she felt their influence ; but duty for- bade her to acknowledge that she felt it. Eight weeks had passed ; the wounds of Augustus were nearly healed ; his health was restored, and his strength re- turned, and Harry said that in another week he might de- part ; but tho announcement gave no joy to him to whom il was addressed. His confinement bad been robbed of iu solitariness, it had become as a dream in which be delighteil and ho could have asked but permission to gaze upon tb( face of bis companion to endure it for ever. About an hour after be received this intelligence, Fanny entered tho apart-J ment. He rose to meet her — he took her band, and tbcji sat down together. But ber harp lay untouched — she spoke little — ho thought she sighed, and be, too, was silent. '• Lady," said be, anxiously, still holding her hand in hisj " I know not where I am, nor by whom I am surrounded- tbis only I know, that you, with an angel's care, have watched over me, that you have restored me to health, and rendered confinement more grateful than liberty ; but, in a few days, wo must part — part, perhaps, for ever ; then, before I go, grant mo but one request — let me look Mpon the face of her whoso remembrance will dwell in my heart as its dearest thought, wliilo the pulse of life throbs within it." " I must not, 1 dare not," said Fanny, and sho paused and sighed — " 'tis not worth looking on,'' slie added. "Nay, dearest," continued bo, '-deny me not — it is a small request. Fear nothing — never shall danger fall upon any connected with you through me. 1 will swear 10 you" " Swear not !'' interrupted Fanny — " I dare not ! — no I— and she airain sighed. TALES OF THE BORDERS 127 llo pressed licr Iiaiul more closely witliiii liis. A bicath- loss siloiico followed, and a tear glisteiic from the pew to the hackney-coach or seJan-chair which waited for her at the church door ; and, eventually, he led her to the altar in the seventy-third year of her age ; when, to use his own words, he married her thirty thousand pounds, and took the old woman before the minister as a witness. Such, sir, is all I know concerning Cautious Watty. "The next o' your auld class-mates that 1 have to notice, (continued Mr. Grierson,) is LEEIN' PETER. Peter Murray was the cause o' mair grief to me than ony scholar that ever was at my school. He could not tell a story the same way in which he heard it, or give ye a direct answer to a positive question, had it been to save his life. I sometimes was at a loss whether to attribute his grievous pro- TALES OF THE BORDERS, 1^5 pensity to n defect o' momor)', a prcpoiulonuico o' iinagiiia-j tion over b.iilli memury and judgment, or to the natural de- pravity o' Ills heart, and tlie furec o' ahomir.ahle habits early acquired. Certaiu it is, that all the thrashing that I could thrash, I couldna get the laddie to speak the truth. His parents Avere ])erpetuallv coming to me to lick him soundly for this lie and the other lie ; and I did lick him, until I saw that bodily punishment was of no ctTect. Moral means were to be tried, and I did try them. I tried to shame him out o' it. I reasoned wi' him. I shewed him the folly and the enormity o' his offence, and also pointed out its conse- quences — but I might as weel hao spoken to the stane in the wa'. He was Lecin' Peter still. After he left me, he was a while wi' a grocer, and a while wi' a haberdasher, and then he went to a painter, and after that he was admitted into a writer's office ; but, one after another, they had to turn dim away, and a' on account o' his unconquerable habit o' ottering falsehoods. His character became so well known, diat nobody about the place would take him to be anything. He was a sad heart-break to his parents, and they were as decent people as ye could meet wi'. But, as they had rcspcctal>le connections, they got hira into some situation about Edinburgh, where his character and his failings were unknown. But it was altogether useless. He was turned out of one situation after another, and a' on account of his incurable and dangerous habit, until his friends could do no more for liim. Noo, doctor, I daresay ye may have observ- ed, that a confirmed drunkard, rather tlian want drink, will steal to procure it — and, as sure as that is the case, tak my word for it, that, in nine cases out of ten, he who begins by being a habitual liar, will end in being a thief. Such was the case wi' Leein' Peter. After being disgiaced and turned from one situation after anither, he at last was caught in the act o' purloining his master's property and cast into prison. He broke his mother's heart, and covered his fither's grey l:airs wi' sliame ; and he sank from one state o" degradation to another, till now, I believe, he is anc o' those prowlers and pests o' society, who are to be found in every large town, and who live naebody can tell how, but every one can tell that it cannot be honestly. Such, sir, has been the fate o' Leein' Peter. There is only another o" your book-mates that I have to make mention o', and that is John JMathewson, or JOCK THE DUNCE. Many a score o' times hae I said that Jock's head was as impervious to learnin' as a nether mill-stane. It would hae been as easy to hae driven IMensmation into the head o' an ox, as instruction into the brain o' Jock Mathewson. He was a bom dunce. I fleeched him, and I coaxed him, and I eudcavoiu-ed to divert him to get him to learn, and I kicked him, and I cuffed him ; but I might as weel hae kicked my heel upon the floor, or fleeched the fireplace. Jock was knowledge-proof. All my efforts were o' no avail. I could get him to learn nothing, and to comprehend nothing. Often I had half made up my mind to turn him away from the school, for I saw that I never would have any credit by the llockhead. But what was most annoying was, that here was his mother at me, every hand-awhile, saying — ' Mr Grierson, I'm really surprised at yc. My son, John, u not comin on ava. I really wush ye wad tak mair pains wi' hira. It is an unco thing to be payin' you guid money, and the laddie to be getting nac guid for it. I wad hae ye to understand, that his faither doesna make his money sae easily — no by sitting on a seat, or walking up and down a room, as ye do. There's such a anc's son awa into the Latin, nae less, I understand, and my John no out o' the Testament. But, depend upon it, Jlr Grierson, if ye dinna try to do something wi' him, I maun tak him awa from your scaool, and tkit is the shwt and the long o't.' ' J)o sae, ma'am, said I, and I'll thank ye. Alerq me ! it's a bonnv thing, indeed do yc sujijiose that I lia^l the makin o' your son ? If Nature has formed his head out o' a whin-stane, can I transform it into marble.' Ymir son would try the patience o' Job— his head is thicker than a door-post. I can mak nnething o' him. I would sooner teach a hundred than be trout)led wi' him.' ' Hundred here, hundred there !' said slie, in a tift ; ' but it's a hard matter, Mr Grierson, for his faither and me to be payin' ye money for naething ; an' if ye dinna try to niak something o' him, I'll tak him frae your school, an" that will be baith seen an' heard tell o' !' So saying, away she would drive, tossing her head wi' the airs o' my lady. Ye canna conceive, sir, wliat a teacher has to put up wi'. Thomson says — ' DeliKlitful t.-isk To tcacli the young idea how to slioot I' I wish to goodness he had tried it, and a month's specimen o'its delighls would have surfeited him, and instead o' what he has written, he would have said — Di'Krailiiifr thought To he each sniveirin? blocklicad's parent's alavel Now, ye'li remember tliat Jock was perpetually sniftering and gaping wi' his mouth, or even sucking his thumb like an idiot. There was nae keeping the animal cleanly, much less instructing him ; and then, if he had tlie book in his hand, there he sat staring owre it, wi' a look as vacant and stupid as a tortoise. Or, if he had the slate before him, there was he drawing scores on't, or amusing himsel wi' twirling and twisting the pencil in the string through the frame. Never had I such a lumj) o' stupidity within tlie walls u' mv school. After his leaving me, lie was put as an apprentice to a bookseller. I thought, of all the callings under the sun, that which had been chosen for him was the h'a>t suited to a per. son o' his capacity. But — would ve believe it, sir? — Jock surprised us a'. He fairly turned the corner on a' my calcu- lations. When he began to look after the lassies, he also began to " smart up." He came to my night-school, wlien he would be about eighteen, and I was perfectly astonished at the change that had taken place, even in the ajipearance o' the callant. His very nose, which had always been so stuffed and thick-like, was now an ornament to his face. He had become altogether a lively, tine-looking lad ; and, more marvellous still, his whole heart's desire seemed to be to learn; and he did learn with a rapidity that both astonished and delighted me. I actually thought the instructions which I had endeavoured to instil into him for years, and apparently without effect, had been lying dormant, as it were, in the chambers o' his brain, like a cuckoo in winter — that they had been sealed up as fast as I imparted them, by some cause that I did not comprehend, and that now they had got vent, and were issuing out in rapid and vigorous strength, like a person refreshed after a sleep. After he had been two years at the night scliool, so fai from considering hira a dunce, I regarded him as an amazing clever lad. From the instance I had had in him, 1 began to perceive that precocity o' intellect was nae jirnof o' its power. Well, shortly after the time I am speaking (/, he left Annan for Glasgow, and, after being a year or Uva llicre, he com. nienced business upon liis own account. I may safely say, that never man was more fortunate. But, as his means in- creased, he did not confine liimself to the business in wliich he had been brought up, but he became an extensive ship- owner; he also became a partner in a cotton-mill concern. He was elected a member of tlie town council, and was distinguished as a leading member and orator of the guild. Eventually, he rose to be one of the city magistrates. He iJ now also an extensive landed proprietor ; and I even hear it allirined, that it is in contemplation to put him in nominatioc I3U TALES OF THE BORDERS. (or sonic \>hice or another at tlic next election. _ Sucli things liappen, doctor — and ^vha would hae thocht it o' Jock the Dunce .'' Now, sir, (added the dominie,) so far as I have been able, I have given you the history o' your class-fellows. Con- cerning you, doctor, I have known less and heard less than o' ony o' them. You being so far away, and so long away, and your immediate relations about here being dead, so that ye have dropped correspondence, I have heard nothing con- cerning ye ; and I have often been sorry on that accoimt ; for, believe me, doctor — (here the doctor pushed the bottle to him, and the old man, helping himself to another glass and drinking it, again continued) — I say, believe me, doctor, that I never had two scholars under my care o' whose talents I had greater opinion than o' Solitary Sandy and yoursel ; and it has often vexed me that I could hear naething con- cerning ye, or whether you were dead or living. Now, sir, if ye'll favour me wi' an account o' your history, from the time o' j-our going out to India, your auld dominie will he obliged to ye ; for I like to hear concerning ye all, as though ye had been my ain baims." " There is httle of interest in my history, sii-," said the doctor ; " but, so far as there is any, your wish shall be gratified." And he proceeded as is hereafter written. THE DOCTOR'S STORY. " In your history, sir, of Venturesome Jamie, which you are unable to finish, you mentioned the rivalry that existed between him and me, for the affections o' bonny Kattie Alison. James was a noble fellow. I am not ashamed that I had such a rival. In our youth I esteemed him while I hated him. But, sir, I do not remember the time when Katie Alison was not as a dream in my heart — when I did not tremble at her touch. Even when we pulled the gowans and the cowslips together, though there had been twenty present, it was for Katie that I pulled mine. "When we plaited the rushes, I did it for her. She preferred me to Jamie, and I knew it. When I left your school, and when I proceeded to India, I did not forget her. 13ut, as you said, men go there to make money — so did I. My friends laughed at my boyish fancy — they endeavoured to make me ashamed of it. I became smitten with the eastern disease of fortune-making, and, though I did not forget her, I neglected her. But, sir, to diop this : I was not twenty-one when I anived in Bombay ; nor had I been long there till I was appointed phj'sician to severalPersee families of great wealth. AVith but little eflbrt, fortune opened before me. I performed a few surgical operations of considerable difficulty, with suc- cess. In several desperate cases I effected cures, and my name was spread not only through the city, but throughout the island. The riches I went to seek I found. But even then, sir, my heart would turn to your school, and to the happy hours I had spent by the side of bonny Katie Alison. However, it would bo of no interest to enter into the details of my monotonous life. I shall dwell only upon one incident, which is, of all others, the most remarkable that ever occurred to me, and which took place about sis years after my arrival in India. I was in my carriage, and accompanying the remains of a patient to the burial ground — for you know that doctors cannot cure, when Death is determined to have its way. The burial ground lies about three miles from Bom- bay, across an extensive and beautiful plain, and the road to it is by a sort of an avenue, lined .and shaded on eiich side by cocoa-nut trees, which spread their branches over the path, and distil their cooling juice into the cups which the Hindoos have placed around them to receive it. You can form but a faint conception of the clear azure of an Indian sky, and never had I seen it more beautiful than on the day to which I refer, though some of the weather-prophets about Bombaj were predicting a storm. We were about the middle of the avenue I have described, when we overtook the funeral of an officer who had held a commission in a corps of Sepoys. The coffin was carried upon the shoulders of four soldiers ; before it marched the Sepoys, and behind it, seated in a palanquin borne by four Hindoos, came the widow of the deceased. A large black veil thrown over her head, almost enveloped her person. Her head was bent upon her bosom, and she seemed to weep bitterly. We followed behind them to the burial-place ; but, before the service was half concluded, the heavens overcast, and a storm, such as I had never witnessed, burst over our heads, and hurled its furj' upon the graves. The rain poured do^^■n in a fierce and impetuous torrent — but you know not, in this country, what a torrent of rain is. The thunder seemed tearing heaven in twain. It rolled, reverbcd, and pealed, and rattled with its tremendous voice over the graves of the dead, .is though it were the outbursting of eternity — the first blast of the archangel's trumpet — announcing the coming judgment ! The incessant lightnings flashed tlirough the air, like spirits winged with flame, andawakeningthedead. The Sepoys fled in terror, and hastened to the city, to escape the terrible fury of the storm. Even those who had accompanied niyfriend's body fled to th them, before the earth was covered over the dead that they had followed to the grave. But still, by the side of the officer's grave, ant unmindful of the storm, stood his poor widow. She refused to leave the spot till the last sod was placed upon her hus- band's bosom. ]\Iy heart bled for her. Within three yards from her, stood a veteran English sergeant, who, with the Hindoos, that bore her palanquin, were all that remained in the burial-place. Common humanity prompted me to offer her a place in my carriage back to the city. I inquired of the sergeant who the deceased was. He informed me that he was a young Scotch officer — that his marriage had oftended his friends — that they had denounced him in consequence — that he had enlisted — and that the officers of the regiment which he had first joined, had procured him an ensigncy in a corps of Sepoys, but that he had died, leaving the young widow who wept over his grave, a stranger in a strange land. And,"added the sergeant, "a braver fellow never set foot upon the ground." When the last sod had been placed upon the grave, I ap- proached the young widow. I respectfully offered to convey her and the sergeant to the city in my carriage, as the vio- lence of the stoiin increased. At my voice, she started — she uttered a suppressed scream — she raised her head — she withdrew her handkerchief from her eyes! — I beheld her features! — and, gi-acious Heaven! — whom, sir ! — whom — whom did I see, but my owa Katie Alison !" " Doctor ! — Doctor !" exclaimed the old dominie, starting from his seat, " what do I hear .''" " I cannot describe to you," continued the other, " the tumultuous joy, combined mtli agony, the indescribable feel- ings of that moment. We stood — we gasped — we gazed upon each other ; neither of us spoke. I took her hand — I led her to the carriage — I conveyed her to the city." ' And, O doctor, what then .-'" inquired the dominie. " Why, sir," said the doctor, " many days pa-ssed — many words were spoken — mutual tears were shed for Jamie Johnstone — and bonny Katie Alison, the lassie of my first love, became mj' wife, and is the mother of my childrcrv She will be here in a few days, and will see her old dominie. xK: (^'V^' WILSON'S ri^ rALES OF THE BORDERS. THE DOOM OF SOLiLIS. ** Tlicy rolled liim up in a sheet of lead, A sheet of lead for a funeral pall ; Tliey pluu^eil liini in the caldron red. And melted him — lead, and bones, and all." — Leydcn, A Gazkttker would inform you that Dcnholm is a village licautifully situated near tlie banks of the Teviot, about mid- way between Jedburgh and Ilawiek, and in the parish of Cavers; and, perhaps, if of modern date, it would add, ithas the honour of being the birth-])lace of Dr Leyden. How- ever, it was somewhat earl}' on a summer morning, a few years ago, that a j'oung man, a stranger, with a fishiiig-rod in liis hand, and a creel fastened to his shoulders, entered the village. He stood in the midst of it, and, turning round — " This, then," said he, " is the birth-place of Leyden — tlie son of genius — the martyr of study — the friend of Scott !" Few of the villagers were astir; and at the first he met — who carried a spade over his should-er, and appeared to be a iitcher — he inquired if he could shew him the house in which the bard and scholar was born. •' Ou, ay, sir," said the man, " I wat can I — I'll shew ye that instantly, and proud to shew you it too." " Tliat is good," thought the stranger; " the prophet is dead, but he yet speaketh — he hath honour in his own country." The ditcher conducted him across the green, and past the end of a house, which was described asbeingthe school-house, and was newly built, and led him to wards an humble building, the height of which was but a single stor3', and which was found occupied by a millwright as a workshop. Yet, again, the stranger rejoiced to find that the occupier venerated his premises for the poet's sake, and that he honoured the geniu.s of him who was bom in their precincts. " Dash it !"* said the stranger, quoting tlie habitual phrase of poor Leyden, " I shall fish none to-day." And I wonder not at his having so s;iid ; for it is not every day that we can stand beneath the thatch-clad roof — or any other foof — where was boni one whose name time will bear writ- ten in undying characters on its wings, until those wings droop in the diirkness of eternity. The stranger proceeded up the Teviot, oftentimes thinking of Leyden, of all that he hadwTitten, and occasionally repeat- ing passages aloud. He almost forgot that he had a rod in his hand — his eyes did anything but follow the fly, and, I need hardly say, his success was not great. About mid-day, he sat down on the green bank in solitari- les3, to enjoy a sandwich, and he also placed by his side a small flask containing spirits, which almost every angler, who wn aflord it, carries with him. But he had not sat long, when a venerable-looking old man saluted him with — " Here's a bonny daj', sir." The old man stood as he spoke. There was something prepossessing in his appearance, He had a weather-beaten face, with thin wliite hair ; blue eyes that had lost somewhat of their former lustre ; his Bhoulders were rather bent ; and he seemed a man who was • Thii was a common expresfiion of Leyden's, and, perhaps, was in lome degree cxi>roasivc of his headlong and Jctenmncd cluiracter, 18. Vol.. L certainly neither rich nor afllueiit, but who wiisat ease with the world, ;ind the world was at ease with him. They entered into conversation, and they sat down toge- ther. The old man appeared exactly one of those characters whom you will occasionally find fraught with the traditions of the Borders, and still tainted with, and half believing in, their ancient superstitions. I wish not to infer that super- stition was carried to a greater h-eight of absurdity on the Borders than in other parts of England and Scotland, nor even that the inhabitants of the north were as remarkable in early days for their superstitions, as they now are for their intelligence ; for every nation had its superstitions, and I am persuaded that most of them might be traced to a com- mon origin. Yet, though the same in origin, they change their likeness with the character of a nation or district. People unconsciously made their superstitions to suit them- selves, though their imaginary efi'ects still terrified them. There was, therefore, a something characteristic in the fables of our forefathers, which fables they believed as facts. The cunning deceived the ignorant — the ignorant were willing to deceive themselves ; and what we now laugh at as the clever trick of a hocus-pocas man, was, scarce more than a century ago, received as a miracle — as a thing performed by the hand of the " prince of the powers of the air." Religion with- out knowledge, and still swaddled in darkness, fostered the idle fear : yea, there are few superstitions, though prosti- tuted by wickedness, that did not owe their existence to some glimmering idea of religion. They had not seen the lamp which lightens the soul, and Icadeth it to knowledge ; but, having perceived its far-off" reflection, plunged into the quag- mire of error — and hence proceeded superstition. But I digress into a descant on the superstitions of our fathers, nor should I have done so, but that it is impossible to write a Border Tale of the olden time without bringing them forward ; and, when I do so, it is not with the intention of instilling into the minds of my readers the old idea of sorcery, witchcraft, and visible spirits, but of shewing what was the belief and conduct of our forefathers. Therefore, without further com- ment, I shall cut short these remarks, and simply observe, that the thoughts of the young stranger still running upon Le3den, he turned to the elder, after they had sat together for some time, and said — " Did you know Dr Leyden, sir.'" " Ken him !" said the old man ; " fifty years ago, I've wrought day's-work beside his father for months together !" They continued their conversation for some time, and the younger inquired of the elder, if he were acquainted with Leyden's ballad of " Lord Soulis ?" " Why, I hae heard a verse or twa o' the ballant, sir," said the old man, " but I'm sure everybody kens the story. However, if ye're no perfectly acquaint wi' it, I'm sure I'm willing to let ye hear it wi' great pleasure ; and a remarkable story it is — and just as true, sir, ye may tak my word on't, as that I'm raising this bottle to my lips." So saying, the old man raised the flask to his mouth, and after a regular fisher's draught, added — " Weel, sir, I'll let ye hear the storj' about Lord Soulis ; — You have, no doubt, heard of Hermitage Ciistle, which stands upon the river of that name, at no gic.it disUince from Hawick. In the days of the great and good King Robert 138 TALES OF THE BOEDEES. the Bruce, tLat castle was inhabited Cy Lord Soulls.* lie was a man whose very name spread terror far and wide ; for he was a tyrant and a sorcerer. He had a giant's strength, an evil eye + and a demon's heart ; and he kept ids J'amiliar'^ locked in a chest. Peer and peasant became pale at the name of Lord Soulis. His hand smote down the strong, his eye blasted the healthy. He oppressed the poor, and he robbed the rich. He ruled over his vassals with a rod of iron. From the banks of the Tweed, the Teviot, and the Jed, with their tributaries, to beyond the Lothians, an incessant cry was raised against him to Heaven and to the king. But his life was protected by a charm, and mortal weapons could not prevail acrainst him. (The seriousness with ivhich the nar- rator said this, shewed that he gave full credit to the tradi- tion, and believed in Lord Soulis as a sorcerer.) He was a man of great stature, and his person was exceed- ing powerfuL He had also royal blood in his veins, and laid claim to the crown of Scotland in opposition to the Bruce. But two things troubled him ; and the one was, to place the crown of Scotland on his head — the other, to possess the hand of a fair and rich maiden, named Marion, who was about to wed with Walter, the young heir of Branxholmj the stoutest and the boldest youth on all the wide Borders. Soulis was a man who was not only of a cruel heart, but it was iilled with forbidden thoughts ; and, to accomplish his purposes, he went down into tlie dungeon of his castle, in the dead of night, that no man might see him perform the 'deed without a name.' He carried a small lamp in his hand, which threw around a lurid light, like a glow-worm in a sepulchre ; and, as he went, he locked the doors behind him. He carried a cat in his arms. Behind hiro^ a dog followed timidly, and before him into the dungeon he drove a young bull that had ' never nipped the grass.' He entered the deep and the gloomy vault, and, with a loud voice, he exclaimed— ' Spirit of darkness I — I come !* He placed the feeble lamp upon the ground in the middle of the vault ; and, with a pick-axe, which he had previously prepared, he dug a pit and buried the cat alive ; and, as the poor, suffocating creature mewed, he exclaimed the louder — ' Spirit of darkness, come !' lie then leaped upon the grave of the living animal, and seizing the dog by the neck, he dashed it violently against the wall, towards the left corner where he stood, and, unable to rise, it lay howling long and piteously on the floor. Then did he plunge his knife into the throat of the young bull, and, while its bleatings mingled with the howling of the dying dog, amidst what might be called the blue darkness of the vault, he received the blood in the palms of his hands, and he stalked around the dungeon, sprinkling it in circles, and crying with a loud voice — ' Spirit of darkness, hear me '.' Again he digged a pit, and seizing the dying animal, he hurled it into the grave, feet upwards ; § and again he groaned, while the sweat stood on his brow — ' Come, spirit '. — come !' He took a horse-shoe, wliich had lain in the vault for years, and which was called, in the family, the spirit's shoe, and he nailed it against the door, so that it hung obliquely ; !| and, as he gave the last blow to the nail, again he cried — • lie w^s also proprietor of Eccles in Benriekahire, and, according to Iiistory, vaa seized in the town of Berwick — but tradition sayctH otherwise. + There is, perhaps, no snpcrstition more iridely diffused than the belief in the fascination of an evil ere or a maligoant glance -, and, I am sorry to say, the absurdity has still its believers. *'Each sorcerer was supposed to have his familiar spirit, that accom- panied him ; but Soulis waa said to keep his locked in a chest. § These are the recorded practices which sorcerers resorted to, when they vished to have a gtimjat of aritibU spirits. II In the account of the trial of Elizabeth Bathpate, wife of Alexander P^e, msltman in Eyemouth, one of the accusations in the indictment dirainat her was, that she had '* ane horse-schoe in ane damet and secriet p lirt of your dur, keepit by you thairopoun, aa ane devilish mean is and u.strLctioQij &oa the deTill." Bat tiie sap entitioas of tke Borders, ' Spirit, I obey thee '. — come .' Afterwards, he took his place in the middle cf tie fioor, and nine times he scattered around him a handful cf salt, tl each time exclaiming— ' Spu-it, arise ! Then did he strike thrice nine times with his hand upon a chest which stood in the middle of the floor, ana by iu foot was the pale lamp, and at each blow he cried— ' Arise, spirit ! arise !' Therefore, when he had done these things, and cried twenty and seven times, the hd of the chest began to move, and a fearful figure, with a red cap* upon its head, and which resembled nothing in heaven above, or on earth below, rose, and, wiih a hollow Toice,+ inquired— ' What want ye, Soulis .'■' ' Power, spirit ! — power !' he cried, ' that mine eyes may have their desire, and that every weapon formed by mai. may fall staithless on my body, as the spent light of a waning moon !' ' Thy wish is granted, mortal .'' groaned the fiend. ' To-morrow eve, young Branxholm's bride shall sit within thy bower, and his sword return bent from thy bosom, as though he had dashed it against a rock. Farewell ! invoke me not again for seven years, nor open the door of the vault, but then knock thrice upon the chest and I will answer thee. Away ! foUow thy course of sin and prosper — (>ui beware oj a coming mood' With a loud and sudden noise, the lid of the massy chest fell, and the spirit disappeared, and firom the floor of the vault issued a deep sound, like the reverbing of thunder. Soulis took up the flickering lamp, and leaving the dying dog still howling in the corner whence he had driven it, he locked the iron door, and placed the huge key in his bosom. In the morning, his vassals came to him, and they prayed him on their bended knees, that he would lessen the weight of their hard bondage ; but he laughed at their prayers, and answered them with stripes. He oppressed the widow, and persecuted the fatherless ; he defied the powerful, and trampled on the weak. His name spread terror wheresoever it was breathed, and there was not in all Scotland a man more feared than the wizard Soulis, the Lord of Hermitage. He rode forth in the morning with twenty of his chosen men behind him, and wheresoever they passed the castle or the cottage where the occupier was the enemy of Soulis or denied his right to the crown, J they fired the latter, destroyed the cattle around the former, or he sprinkled upon them the dust of a dead man's hand, that a murrain might come amongst them. But, as they rode by the side of the Teviot, he beheld feir Marion, the betrothed bride of young AV'alter, the heir of Branxholm, riding forth with her maidens, and pursuing the red deer. ' By this token, spirit,' muttered Soulis, joyously, ' thou hast not lied — to-night young Branxholm's bride shall sit within my bower.' He dashed the spur into the side of his fleet steed, and, although Marion and her attendants forsook the chase and fled, as they perceived him, yet, as though his Jamiiiar gave speed to his horse's feet, in a few seconds he rode by the side of Marion, and, throwing out his arm, he lifted her from the which it is necessary to illustrate in these Talcs, aj eicmplifying the character of our faiefethcrs, will be more particularly dwelt upon, and tlieir absurdity unmasked, in Tales wUch will sLortly appear, entitled — -Betty Batl'sratc, the Witch of Eyemouth ;•" "Pej^ Stoddart, the Witch of Edlingham;" and "The Laidley WormofSpintilcstoneUeogfa-'' * Red-cap is a name given to spirits supposed to hannt castles. + In the proceedings regarding Sir George Maxwell, it is gravely s^t forth, that the voice of evil spirits is ** rough and goustie ;" and, to cnyr q all, Lilly, in his *• Life and Times," informs ns. that they speak Ersa — and, adds he, "■ when they do to, it's like Iri^Lmen, much in t ha throat !" t If legitimacy conld have been proved on the part e>( the pra^d- mother of Lord Soulis, he certainly was ft ncuer bsk to the crowa thaa cither Bnice or Bolio], TALES OF TEE BORDERS. 139 s.idille, vrlilV licr lior3o yet flow nt its fastest speed, and continiu'il its cimrso witliont its f;iir ridor. Slie sitciimcd aloud, she struggled wildly, 1)ut lier attend- ants had fled afar off, and her strength was feeble as an insect's vceh in his tcrrihle embrace. lie held her ujiou the saddle before him — ' Marion ! — fair Rfnrinn !' said tlie wizard and niffian lover, ' scream not — struggle not — be cnlm, and hear me. I love thee, pretty one ! — 1 love thee !' and he rudely raised her lips to his. ' Fate hath decreed thou shalt ho mine, Marion — and no human power shall take thee from nie. AVeep not — strive not. Hear ye not, I love thee — lore thee fiercely, madl)', maiden, as a she-wolf doth its cubs. As a river seeketh the sea, so have I sought thee, Jlarion: and now, thou art mine — fate hath given thee unto me, and thy fair check shall rest upon a manlier bosom than that of Branx- holm's beardless heir.' Thus saying, and still grasping her beforehim, he again plunged his spurs intohishorse'ssides, and Ue and his followers rnde furiously towards Hermitage Castle. He locked the gentle Marion within a strong chamber — lie * Wooed lier as the lion wooes Ins bride. And now she ■wept, she wrung her hands, she tore her raven hair before him, and it hung dishevelled over her face and upon her shoublcrs. She implored him to save her, to restore her to liberty; and again finding her tears wasted and her prayers in vain, she defied him, she invoked the vengeance of Heaven upon his head ; and, at such moments, the tjTant and the reputed sorcerer stood awed and stricken in her presence. For there is something in the majesty of virtue, and the holiness of innocence, as they flash from the ej-es of an injured woman, which deprives guilt of its strength, and defeats its purpose, as though Heaven lent its electricity to defend the weak. But, wearied with importunity, and finding his threats of no eflect, on the third night that she had been within his castle, he clutched her in his arms, and, while his vassals slept, he bore her to the haunted dungeon, that the spirit might throw its spell over her and compel her to love him. He unlocked the massy door. The faint howls of the dog were still heard from a comer of the vault. He placed the lamp upon the ground. He still held the gentle Clarion to his side, and her terror had almost mastered her struggles. He struck his clenched hand upon the huge chest — he cried aloud — ' Spirit ! come forth !' Thrice he repeated the blow — thrice he uttered aloud Lis invocation. But the spirit arose not at his summons. Clarion knew the tale of his sorcery — she knew and believed it — and terror deprived her of consciousness. On recovering, she found herself again in the strong chamber where she had been confined, but Soulis was not with her. She strove to calm her fears, she knelt down and told her beads, and she begged that her Walter might be sent to her deli- verance. It was scarce daybreak when the young heir of Branx- holm, whose bow no man could bend, and whose sword was terrible in battle, with twice ten armed men, arrived before Hermitage Castle, and demanded to speak with Lord Soulis. The warder blew his horn, and Soulis and his attendants came forth and looked over the battlement. ' What want ye, boy,' inquired the wizard chief, ' that, ere the sun be risen, yc come to seek the lion in his den ?' ' I come,' replied young Walter, boldly, ' in the name of our good king, and by his authority, to demand that ye give bito my hands, safe and sound, my betrothed bride, lest vengeance come upon thee.' ' Vengeance ! beardling !' rejoined the sorcerer ; ' who dares speak of vengeance on the house of Soulis.' — or whom call ye king? The crowii is mine — thy bride is mine, and thou also shalt be mine ; and a dog's death shalt thou die for tijy morning's boasting.' ' To arms !' be exclaimed, as be disappeared from the battlement, and within a few minutes a hundred men rushed from the gate. Sir Walter's little band quailed as they beheld the STDperioi force of their enemies, and they were in dread also of the sorcery of Soulis. But hope revived within tliera when they beheld the look of confidence on the countenance of their young leader, and thought of the strength of his arm, and the terror which his sword spread. As hungry tigers spring upon their prey, bo rushed S juIIs and his vassals upon Sir Walter and his followers. No man could stand before the sword of the sorcerer. Antagonists fell as impotent things before his giant strength. Even Walter marvelled at the havoc he made, and he pressed for- ward to measure swords with him. But, ere he could reach him, his few followers who had escaped the hand of Soulis and his host, fled and left him to maintain the battle single- handed. Every vassal of the sorcerer, save three, pursued them; and against these three, and their charmed lord, young Walter was left to maintain the unequal strife. But, as they pressed around him, 'Back!' cried Soulis, trusting to his strength and to his charm ; ' from my hand alone must Branxbolm's young boaster meet his doom. It is meet that I should give his head as a toy to my bride, fair Marion." 'Thy bride, fiend I' exclaimed Sir AValter; 'thine! — now perish !' and be attacked him furiously. ' Ha I ha !' cried Soulis, and laughed at the impetuosity of his antagonist, while he parried his thrusts ; ' take rushes for thy weapon, boy; steel falls feckless upon me.' ' Vile sorcerer !' continued Walter, pressing upon him more fiercely ; ' this sword shall sever thy enchantment.' Again Soulis laughed, but he found that his contempt availed him not, for the strength of his enemy was equal to his own, and, in repelling his fierce assaults, he almost for- got the charm which rendered his body invulnerable. They fought long and desperately, when one of the followers of Soulis, suddenly and unobserved, thrusting his spear into the side of Sir Waller's horse, it reared, stumbled, and fell, and brought him to the ground. ' An arrow-schot !'* exclaimed Soulis ; ' wRerefore, boy didst thou presume to contend with me.''' And suddenly springing from his horse, he pressed his iron heel upon the breast of his foe, and turning also the point of bis sword towards his throat — ' Thou shalt not die yet,' said he ; and turning to the three attendants who had not followed in the pursuit, he added — ' Hither — bind him fast and sure.' Then did the three hold him on the ground, and bind his hands and his feet, while Soulis held his naked sword over him. ' Coward and wizard I' exclaimed Walter, as they dragged him within the gate, ' ye shall rue this foul treachery.' ' Ha ! ha ! vain, boasting boy !' returned Soulis, ' tbca indeed shalt rue thy recklessness.' He caused his vassals to bear Walter into the strong chamber where fair Slarion was confined, and, grasping bira by the neck, while he held his sword to his breast, he dragged him towards her, and said, sternly — ' Consent thee, now, maiden, to be mine, and this boy shall live — refuse, and his head shall roll before thee on the floor as a plaything.' ' Monster!' she exclaimed, and screamed aloud; ' would ye harm my Walter ?' ' Ha ! my Marion !— Marion ? cried Walter, struggling to he free. And, turning his eyes fiercely upon Soulis, ' Destroy me, fiend,' he added, ' "but harm not her.' ' Think on it, maiden,' cried the sorcerer, raising his sword ; ' the life of thy bonny bridegroom hangs upon thy word. But ye shall have until midnight to reflect on it. Be mine, then, and h.arm shall not come upon him or thee ; but a man shall be thy husband, and not the boy whom be hath brought to thee in bonds.' • AVhen cattle dictl siiddcnly, it wm believed to be by an airoT-schot- that IB, shot or struck down by the invisible d^rt of a sorctxisc no TALES OF THE BORDERS. Bcslircw tl.ee, vile sorcerer!' rejoined Walter, ' were my hands unbound, and unarmed as I am, I would force mj wny from thy prison, in spite of thee and thine !' Soulis laughed acomfullj-, and again added — ' Tiink on it, fair Sfarion.' Then did he drag he'- betrothed bridegroom to a comer of the chamber, and ordering a strong chain to be brought, he fettered him against the wall ; in the same manner, he fastened her to the opposite side of the apartment ; but the chains with which he bound her were made of silver. AVhen they were left alone, ' Mourn not, sweet Slarion," said Walter, ' and think not of saving me — before to-mor- row our friends will be here to thy rescue ; and, though I fall a victim to the vengeance of the sorcerer, still let me be the bridegroom of thy memory.' Marion wept bitterly, and said that she would die with him. Throughout the day, the spirit of Lord Soulis was troubled, and the fear of coming evil sat heavy on his heart. lie wandered to and fro on the battlements of his castle, anxioiisly looking for the approach of his retainers, who had followed in pursuit of the followers of Bransholm's heir. But the sun set, and the twilight drew on, and still they came not ; and it was drawing towards midnight when a solitar}' horseman spurred his jaded steed towards the castle gate. Soulis admitted him with his own hand into the court-yard ; and, ere the rider had dismounted, he inf^uired of him, hastily, and in a tone of apprehension — ' Where be thy fellows, knave .' and why come alone ?' ' Pardon mci my lord,' said the horseman, falteringly, as he dismounted ; ' thy faithful bondsman is the bearer of evil tidings.' •Evil! slave!' exclaimed Soulis, striking him as he spoke, ' speak ye of evil to me ? What of it ? — where are thy fellows?' The man trembled, and added — ' In pursuing the follow- ers of Bransholm, they sought refuge in the wilds of Tarras, and being ignorant of the winding paths through its bottom- less morass, horses and men have been buried in it — they who sank not fell beneath the swords of those they had pursued, and I only have escaped.' ' And wherefore did ye escape, knave ?' cried the fierce sorcerer — ' why did ye live to remind me of the shame of the house of Soulis V And, as he spoke, he struck the trembling man again. lie hurried to the haunted dungeon, and again per- formed his incantations, with impatience in his manner and fury in his looks. Thrice he violently struck the chest, and thrice he exclaimed, impetuously — ' Spirit ! come forth ! — arise and speak with me ! ' The lid was lifted up, and a deep and angry voice said — ' Mortal ! wherefore hast thou summoned me before the time I commanded thee ? Was not thy wish granted ? Steel shall not wound thee — cords bind thee — hemp hang thee — nor water drown thee. Away !' ' Stay exclaimed Soulis — ' add, nor fire consume me I' ' Ila I ha r cried the spirit, in a fit of horrid laughter, that made even the sorcerer tremble — ' Beware of a coming wood !' And, with a loud clang, the lid of the chest fell, and the noise as of thunder beneath his feet was repeated. ' Beware of a coming wood !' muttered Soulis to himself; ' what means the fiend i"' lie hastened from the dungeon without locking the door behind him, and, as he hurried from it, he drew the key from his bosom, and flung it over his left shoulder ; crying, ' Keep it, spirit !' lie shut himself up in his chamber, to ponder on the words of his familiar, and on the extirpation of his followers ; and he thought not of iMarion and her bridegroom until day- break, when, with a troubled and a wrathful countenance, he entered the apartment where they were fettered. ' How now, fair maiden ?' he beiran : ' hast thou consi- dered well my words? — wilt thou be my willing bride, and let young Branxholm live ? or refuse, and look thy fill on hia smooth face, as his head adorns the point of rav good spear V ' Rather than see her thine," exclaimed Walter, ' I would thou shotddst hew me in pieces, and fling my mangled body to your hounds.' ' Troth ! and 'tis no bad thought,' said the sorcerer ; ' thou mayest have thy wish. Yet, boy, ye think that I have no mercy : I will teach thee that I have, and refined mercy too. Now, tell me truly, were I in thy power as thou art in mine, what fate would ye award to Soulis ?' ' Then, truly,' replied Walter, ' I would hang thee on the highest tree in Bransholm woods.' ' Well spoken, young Strong-bow,' returned Soulis ; ' and I will shew thee, though ye think I have no mercy, that I am more merciful than thou. Ye would choose for me the highest tree, but I shall give Ihee the choice of Ike Ireefrom which you mmj -prefer your body to hang, and from whose top the owl may sing its midnight song, and to which the ravens shall gather for a feast. And thou, pretty face, added he, turning to Slarion, ' sith you will not, even to save him, give me thine hand, i' faith if I may not be thy husband, I will be thy priest and celebrate your marriage, for I will bind your hands together, and ye shall hang on the next branch to him.' ' For that I thank thee,' said the undaunted maiden. He then called together his four remaining armed men, and placing halters round the necks of his intended victims they were dragged forth to the woods aroimd the Uennitage where Walter was to choose the fatal tree. Now a deep mist covered the face of the earth, and they could perceive no object at the distance of half a bow-shot before them ; and, ere he had approached the wood where he was to carry his merciless project into execution — ' The wood comes towards us ! exclaimed one of his fol- lowers. ' What! — -the wood comes!' cried Soulis, and his cheek became pale, and he thought on the words of the demon — ■ ' Beware of a coming wood .'' — and, for a time, their re- membrance, and the forest that seemed to advance before him, deprived his arm of strength, and his mind of resolu- tion, and, before his heart recovered, the followers of the house of Bransholm, to the number of fourscore, each bearing a tall branch of a rowan-tree in their hands,* as a charm against his sorcery, perceived, and, raising a loud shout, surrounded him. The cords with which the arms of Marion and Walter were bound were instantly cut asunder. But, although the odds against him were as twenty to one, the daring Soulis defied them all. Yea, when his followers were overpowered, his single arm dealt death around. Now, there was not a ' day passed that complaints were notbrought to King Robert, from those residing on the Borders, against Lord Soulis, for his lawless oppression, his cruelty, and his wizard-craft. And, one day, there came before the monarch, one after another, some complaining that he had brought diseases on their cattle, or destroyed their houses by fire, and a third, that he had stolen away the fair bride of Branxholm's heir ; and they stood before the King, and begged to know what shoidd be done unto him. Now, the King was wearied with their importunities and complaints, and he exclaimed, peevishly and unthinkingly — ' Boil him, if you please^ but let me hear no more about him.' But, * It is the ciiree of kings to be attended By slaves tliat take their humour for a warrant ;' and, when the enemies of Soulis heard these words from the • It is probable tliat the lepend of the " coming woo^f." referred to im the tradition rcspertinp Lord Soulis, is the same as th&t from whiisb ShakBpcore takes Maeheth's charm — ° Till Birnam woai lh.^U oomc to Duasinane.** Tlic ciroTunstancofi axe siniilax. TALES OF THE BORDERa 141 lips uFtlic Kin^, tTiey Iiastcnod .way to put tliom in pxccu- 1 tioii ; ami witli them they took a wise man, one who was lenriieJ in breaking the spells of sorcery,* and witii him lie oarricil a scroll, on which was written the secret wisdom of Michael the "Wizard; and they arrived before Hermitage Castle, while its lord was contending single-handed against the retainers of Branxholm, smd their swords were bbinted on his buckler, and his body received no wounds. They Struck him to the ground with their lances ; and they endea- voured to bind his hands and his feet with cords, but his spell snapped them asunder as threads. ' Wrap liini in lead," cried the wise man, ' and boil him therewith, according to the command of the king; for water and hempen cords have no power over his sorcerj'.' Many ran towards the castle, and they tore the lead from the turrets, and they held down the sorcerer, and rolled the sheets around him in many folds, till he was powerless as a child, and the foam fell from his lips in the impotcncy of his rage. Others procured a caldron, in which it was said many of his incantations were performed, and the cry was raised — ' Boil him on the Nine-stane rig !' And they bore him to where the stones of the Druids are to be seen till this day, and the two stones are yet pointed out from which the caldron was suspended. They kindled piles of faggots beneath it, and they bent the living body of Soulis within the lead; and thrust it into the caldron, and, as the flames arose, the flesh and the bones of the wizard were consumed in the boiling lead. — Such was the doom of Soulis. The King sent messengers to prevent his hasty words being carried into execution, but they arrived too late. In a few weeks there was mirth and music, and a mar- riage feast in the bowers of Branxholm, and fair Marion was the bride." THE ONE-ARMED TAR. Old Tom Moffat was the finest fragment of a folly, good- natured, fearless seaman, that I ever met with. I say a fragment of a man ; for he was minush'is right arm. It was pleasant to look upon his merry old face, and to see his flaxen locks descending over his brow in sea-made ringlets ; for, though he was turned threescore, there was not a grey hair upon his head. He appeared like an image of content- ment, that envious mortals had deprived of an arm, and left him laughing at their malignity. But, above all — though Tom was neither given to the throwing of the hatchet, nor the spinning of long yarns — it was delightful, when he was about half-a-sheet in the wind, to hear him relate a few scraps of his history. " Ay! ay!" he would say, " I have been in some rum scenes, and encountered some rough squalls in my time — but no matter : I am now sailing-master JIofTat, with five and sixpence a-day — and no mistake ; and a pension for the loss of my fin into the bargain. I am as comfortable and happy as any two-handed man in the three kingdoms. But, if you wish to know my history, all that's worth telling oft is soon told. I was bom in Hexham. Jly mother was a naval officer's widow, and her father a clergyman. I say she was a widow, because my father died before I was bom. I had a sister, but 1 do not remember her ; and I was brought up by my mother beneath the roof of her father. He was a good but severe old man, and I tried to like him, but I could not, for I shook as I heard him cry — ' Thomas.' He gave me a good education, and wished to make a parson of * Pr I.cyilcn represents this personape aa being " True Tliomas, Lord of Eraylton ;" Imt tlio Rliymcr was dead boforc the time fixed l>y tradi- tion of the death of Lord Soulis, wliich took place in the rcicm of Robert the llmee, who eame to the crown in 1308, and the Rliynicr was dead before 1-00, for, in tliat year, his son and heir panted a charter to the convent of Soltra, and in it he describes himself I'itivs ct fuvrcs Thoma: me, though I don't thinic I was any more parson-like then tlian I am now, and that's not much, I take it. The old man didn't belong to the Church — he was a Dissenter; andhe persevered in his determination of making me a preacher. Tlierefore, when I was about sixteen, he called me into his study, and informcil me that he intended sending me through to ICdinburgh to attend the classes. He even spoke of my succeeding to the puljiit which he occupied ; and he spoke till he brought the salt water into my eyes, and almost upon my cheeks, of living to see me preach in it ! I had no am- bition ^or the honours which he seemed to have in store for me. However, as he was rather too strict a disciplinarian for me, I offered no objections to his plan of sending me to Edinburgh. I thought it would free me from the restraint under which he kept me, and that was all I knew about the matter ; though, like an ungrateful dog as I was, I did not thank the old man as I ought to have done. Now, my grandfather had a watch — it was not a gold one, but it was a very excellent silver one, and it had a gold chain and seals attached to it — it had been presented to him as a token of respect on the day of his ordination, by a family in which he had been for six years tutor and chaplain. And, on the day of my departure, when I had kissed my mother's cheek and felt her lips upon mine — for I loved her as I did my own soul, and she deserved it all — the old man took my hand, and he pulled the watch from his fob, and he put it into my hand, chains, seals, and all, and — ' Take this, Thomas,' said he, ' for your grandfather's sake ; and, as often as ye look at it, remember that time is precious — spend it not in vain.' If I never loved the old man before, I belieyed that 1 loved him then. For presents are excellent temporary openers of the heart, either of man or woman. If your sweetheart be shy, it is wonderful how a present will molify her — but it is not the real thing ; and her seeming aftcction, so produced, won't stand the test, or be of long duration. I have been a sailor, and foolish enough in my day, but I tell you, if you wish a girl to love you sincerely and truly, never attempt to win her heart by the offer of bribes. Give a heart for a heart, and nothing more, till you have her hand too, and then give as much as you like. But, as I was telling you, I set out for Edinburgh with my grandfather's watch in my pocket, and I pulled it out, either to see the hour, or admire ray property, during every half hour on the journo}'. And, I believe, though I did shed tears when he gave it, that, before I was half way to Edinburgh, I had forgot the giver in the gift. However, the first session passed on tolerably enough. I was not kept upon short allowance ; but, though I did not want for vic- tuals, I had not a sixpence of pocket-money, and I felt this the more, because I thought that some of my fellow-students per- ceived mj' circumstances, and despised mo onaccountof them. I returned home honoured with a prize, and received the caresses of my mother and the congratulations of my grand- father. The old man predicted bright days for me — already , in imagination, he beheld me in the pulpit which he had occupied for thirty years. But, with his first session, ended the prudence of Tom Moft'at and his grandfather's hopes. About the end of the second, a circumstance .occurred which put a stop to my studies for twelve months, if not for ever. The people with whom I had lodged during the first year, were about to emi- grate to America. Their name was Linds.ay, and they had a daughter called Margaret, a beautiful girl of seventeen. I never saw her but my blood ran at the rate of ten knots. During my second session, we used to widk in the Meadows, or aiound Uuddingstone Loch, together, and I forsook the study of Greek and of Latin, to study the words that fell from the lips of Jlargaret Lindsay. But, as I was sajnng, they were about to emicrrate to .\merica, and I accompanied them to Lcith *nd went on board the vessel with them. I* 142 TALES OF THE BOEDERS. was night when they sailed. Marf^arct and I were silting iu a corner hclow, away from her parents and the rest of tiie pascengers, unseen, and talking words of tenderness together. She promised never to forget me — I never to forget her. I iutended to accompany her out into the Firth, and to return on shore with tlie pilot. But we knew not how time moved on. We were loath to part, and I noted not that the vessel was under weigh. In truth, I had never been on hoard of one before. But, lo ! her parents called upon Jlargaret, and there sat she with my hand across her shoulders — and the vessel not only beyond Lcith Roads, but out of the Firth ! There was J, a penniless and involuntary passenger across the Atlantic. It was a glorious situation for a student to be placed in ! But the idea of enjoying Margaret's company reconciled me to it. Jfy mind was made up at once, and I went to the commander of the vessel and offered to make myself useful during the voyage. He agreed to the proposal, and I began to take my first lessons in seamanship. We arrived at Quebec, and, after accompanying the girl [ loved for more than three thousand miles, it was hard to part from her, and I wished to go up the country with her father. But he would not hear of the scheme. lie said that I must go back to my friends; and the master, having found mc of service on my passage out, told me that he considered himself accountable for me, and that he must take me back to Leilh. I will not bother you with an account of my parting with Margaret, nor of her distress, poor thing. More than forty years have passed, and I never think of it without feeling, I can't tell how, until this day. Neither will I tell you about our passage home — there was nothing particular in it. My mother received me as if I had risen from the dead — her joy was unbounded — she hung upon my neck and wept fnr hours ; and, though I did not escape several lectures from ray grandfather, he was not so severe upon me as I anticipated. But I said nothing to either him or my mother of Jlargaret lindsay. Such was my second session ; and my third and last was more unfortunate. As I was now becoming a lad, my grand- father became more liberal, and he allowed me a shilling a week for pocket-money. But, during the very first month of the session, a fellow-student advised me to accompany him to the theatre. I had never been in one ; and, besides (he amusement, he said we should receive a lesson in elocu- tion. I needed but little persuasion to accompany him, and we went to the pit together. Two young ladies took their scats beside us. They were wondrous affable, and one of them was almost as beautiful as Margaret Lindsay. I some- times thought they were too affable ; but then they were polite — very polite — and they smiled so sweetly, and thanked me so kindly for every answer I was able to give to their inquiries, that I could not think evil of them. They wished us good night at the door of the theatre, and my friend and I proceeded to our lodgings. But, as we were passing along the South Bridge — ' Jloffat,' says he to me, ' what's the clock ?' I put my hand to my watch pocket, but neither seals nor watch were there. I remembered ha^ang had it in my hand, between the play and the farce, in the theatre. I thought I should have fallen dead upon the street. A blindness came over my eyes. I heard the voice of my grandfather crying in my ears — ' Thomas! Thomas! — reprobate! reprobate !' AVe gave information to the watchmen at the police-office, and at the houses where such articles are received. But, presto! — my grandfather's watch, chain, and seals, were gone. They had vanished like a rainbow, and were nowhere to be found. Every succeeding day of the session was one of asony and reproach. I learned no more. If I opened a pase, imagination heard the ticking of my grandfather's watch and it ticked in my ears eternally ; or, as I strove to read, 1 pui do>vn my finger and thiunb mechanically, to fumbie with tne chain and the seals, and they rubbed against each other, and I started and cried — ' What shall I Qo for the watch .'•' AVith a heavy and foreboding heart, and a countenance that bespoke disaster, I returned to Hexham. JMy welcome was beyond my deserving ; but supper-time came, and my grandfather, my mother, and myself, sat in his little parlour. ' What o'clock is it, Thomas, dear?' said she, kindly. Had she driven a knife to ray heart, I would have taken it as kind. I faltered — I ventured a reply. Jly grandfather observed my hesitation, and he inquired — ' AVliere is your watch, sir — the watch which I gave you ?' He laid par- ticular emphasis on the latter part of his question — my con- fusion increased, and I stammered out some excuse about its being in my chest, I believed. ' You believe no such thing, sir,' said my grandfather, sternly ; ' go bring it in- stantly.' I saw the storm gathering on his brow. I per- ceived that he not only suspected the truth, but believed me more guilty than I was. I left the room, as if to go to my own apartment for the watch ; but, scarce knowing what I did, I left the house by the garden door, and took the road towards Newcastle. Before I had proceeded a mile, my resolution was taken to go to sea. I reached Newcastle before the inhabitants were astir. You may suppose that my experience in the manual duties of a seaman were not great, being merely what I acquired in a trip across the Atlantic and back again. But I had a love for the sea, and had learned readily. I knew that the clothes which I wore were not likely to procure me a berth, and I resolved, as soon as the shops should open, to offer them to a second-hand dealer, in exchange for the garb of a sailor. About seven o'clock I was wandering along what is called the Close, on the look-out for a shop where I should he likely to get an exchange of rigging, when, seeing a street of almost perpendicular stairs, on each side of which were dealers in old clothes shoes, and such like, I ascended it saying to myself — ' This is my shop.' I entered one of the cells, shops, or call them what you like, the proprietress ol which had already been at her morning libations. SJiP received me with a low curtsey, and as sweet a smile as her deep rosy face was capable of expressing. On making known my proposal, the smile vanished from her face quicker than the sun is hidden by a cloud in a hurricane. She surveyed me from head to foot, as a sergeant would examine a recruit, and turning me unceremoniously round, inquired — ' And how much wilt thou gie me t' boot !*' Her whole stock of old clothes, shoes, marine stores, and other ei ccleras, were not worth five pounds, while my coat alone had cost three, not three weeks before. ' Nothing,' replied I. ' Nothing I thou scoomy robber o' the dead !' cried mj fair dealer in second-hand garments. ' Dost think I steal my gudes .-' Nothing ! — Be off!' I was retiring from the tem- pest, when she grasped me by the tails of the coat, adding — ' Coom back ; let me syee w hat I can de wi' thee.' She then spread out a patched blue jacket, an old Guern- sey frock, and a pair of canvass trousers. ' Now, these will fit }'e t' a tee,' continued she, ' or I'm a Dutchman ! But, upon my word, thou sbud gie me sum mut t' boot, my canny kid.' The wide aperture serving for a window, was without frame or glass, and the folding-door was so hung around with the principal stock of the shop, and bamcadoed with boots, shoes, and such like, that it could not be shut till night ; and, on my inquiring for an apartment to change my dress- Jemmy Johnson !' exclaimed she, bursting into laugh- ter ' that's a gud un ! — w here did ye get yur modesty ? Did ye steal the claes, that ye arc afraid to be seen? IMy fyeth J I dinna knaw but the constaples may be here for them before night yet ! I had better mind what I'm decin', else I'llloGe baith gudes and character.' TALES OF THE BORDERS. 143 Jraking a virtue of ncccssitv, 1 equipped mysoll as quickly «s possible ; and, with a Imrried step, hastened to the quay- Witliout stopping, I proceeded to North Shields, wlure 1 went on board a collier, and inquired for the skipper. I was directed down to the cabin, and there I found silting a jolly, fear-notliing, merry little fellow, penning a love epistle to Lis owner's daughter. On applying to him for a berth — ' Why, I don't know but i may gie thee one,' said he ; ' thou's a gud-looking young chap, like mvsel. \\'as ye ever in the coal trade afore .'' ' No,' answered I. ' I might hae seen that by the whiteness o' thy hands,' said he. ' Where did ye sar your time .'"' I told him I had been in the American trade. ' W^ell,' continued he, ' I canna engage ye by the run, but by the montli ; and I'se no gauu to ask ye if ye can hand, reef, and steer, and splice a rope, and them land-lub- berish sort o' questions ; but only, I maun tell ye, when ye are at the lielm, if the watch sing out, " Ship a-head !" dinna ye mind a pin ; but, if the other doesn't ship about, run right athwart the lubber's hawse, and learn him better manners : that's wur way o' dceiu'. Let him knaw it was his duty to stand clear o' a fire-ship. But, I say, are ye a gud writer ?' ' Rather good," said I. ' Shiver me,' said he, 'then yur just the chap for me ! I want a bit letter liere for a sweetheart o' mine, man ; but, smash me ! I can't flourish it off at all. Try thy fist at it, mate. JIaybe ye can uee a bit at the inditing, tee — for, ye see, she's been at the boarding-school ; and, drat me, though I can manage the spelling pretty hobbling, wi' looking at the oictioner for the words, yet I knaw nouglit about their gram- mar. Now, I say, if ye understand it, gie her a gud deal o' grammar in't. Tjiat's the way to dee their business ! Con- science ! had my faither keept me another year at the school, 1 would married a duchess.' I now entered upon the honourable office of confidential secretary to the skipper of a collier. On finisning the letter, I read it to him ; and, on hearing it, he danced round the cabin in ecstasy, exclaiming — ' Blow me, if that wunna dee, nought will. I say, if ye turn out as gud a seaman as ye are a scholar, I will make ye my mate, and that's all.' I thus became a favourite with the skipper from the first; and, not being a bad-natured fellow — though I say it my- pelf — I soon became a favourite with the crew also. I sailed in the collier during three years, and, in that time, I had obtained the forgiveness of my mother — but the countenance of my grandfather never. lie cut me off as a prodigal. But there was one night that about half-a-dozen of us were upon the lark, as we called it— battling the watchmen, and seeing life in London, and, upon the whole, making more mirth than mischief, when, as luck would have it, we ran foul of a press-gang upon Tower Hill. ' What cheer, my hearties ?' cried the Luff who headed the gang. Some of our party took to their heels, but I stood still ; for I didn't care atoss-up of a copper about the matter. I was just as willing to serve the king as another man, if he would pay me for it. So I surrendered at discretion, and the lieutenant called me a ' fine fellow' for so doing. • Ah, you old shark !' thinks I, ' your purser's grin won't gammon Tom Mofi\it.' One of my mates who attempted to run was brought back; and, from my heart I was sorry for him, for he had a wife and four little ones ; and I suppose they might sink or swim, I live or starve, for all that the service into which he was im- pressed would see, say, or care, about the matter. Confound me ! after all, impressment is too bad. It's a black shame to the navy. It has broken more hearts than ever it made heroes. ^Vhy drag away a man, like a dog at a cart tail, against his will? Again I say, it is a shame all over ! AVhy not give better pay, and clear the decks for promotion. Then they would get men — good men, willing men — and the navy would be what it ought to be. I can't away with impressment. iiowever, I was t^en on board the tender in the river, and, in three or four days, joined a seventv-finr off I'ort.s- nunith. 1 liked tlie service well enougli, for our Captain was the very model of what an officer ought to be. He was none of your fresh-water, courtly puppies, who are sent to ollicer the navy because their fathers or their mothers are doing diity work for tlie government peoj)Ie on shore. He was none of your butterllies, recommended by a Lord of the Admiralty, and promoted over the heads of belter men, be- cause their relations have Court influence. This system is as bad as impressment, every whit. It takes away both heart and hope from a man. Is it not hard for a brave fellow, who has been a lieutenant for ten years, and been in twice ten actions, and behaved nobly in all, to have to lift his hat to a puppy to-day as his superior officer, who was a middy beneath him yesterday ? 1 sav it is a sliame. Fair play is a jewel ; and there should be no promotion but what service and merit procure. But I do say that mv old commander was a man every inch of him. He is getting well up the list now, and I hope to live to see him an admiral. I had a little library on board the collier ; and, amongst my books, which my old skipper brought on board the tender to me himself, was a copy of the Iliad— not Pope's translation, but the original. It was my favourite book. My shipmates marvelled at it, they regarded me as a sort of prodigy, and swore I would be a post-captain some day ; and they were wont to look over my shoulder as I read, and point with their finger to a particular word or letter, and inquire — 'Tom, what does that mean?' — or, 'What does that stand for r' — and replying, when I answered them — ' Blow me, but that's funny !' At length, they began to call me ' Greek Tom !' and the name coming to the Captain's ears, he inquired the meaning of it ; and, upon being informed, he sent for me aft; and says he — ' Moffat, what's this I hear of vou .^— you a Greek scholar, eh.''' ' Yes, your honour,' said I. ' The deuce you are !' said he. And he began to put some questions to me, which he found I was more able to answer than he was to ask. ' Well, my good fellow,' he continued. ' you are out of your proper sphere at present — that's all that I can say.' And he began to ask me about my history and relations; and 1 told him everything, not even omitting my trip to America, and the loss of my grandfather's watch. ' Well, I must see what I can do for you,' said he. And at first he made me a sort of schoolmaster on board, and afterwards his clerk or secretary. He treated me like a brother. We had been in two or three actions, and had had a fair run of prizes, when we were sent upon the American station We were lying off Newbury Port, which is about a hundred miles from Boston, and I went ashore for letters. I reached the post-othce, and, as I tapped at the window, and the tin pane v/as withdrawn— eyes and limbs !— whose face— I say, whose face d'ye think I should see, but that of my own sweet and never-forgotten Jlargaret Lindsay ! It was like a pistol-shot in my heart — I was more dead than alive ; and she — why, she fell back with a scream ; and her father rushed into the office, and again to the door, to see what had alarmed his daughter. lie beheld me as much alarmed as her, but he knew me in a twinkling. He took my hand, and led me into the house. What passed I won't tell you. I found Margaret was not married, but she was more beautiful than ever. We didn't speak much, but our eves said a thousand things. On going on board, I told my commander all tliat hap- pened. He was, indeed, a good soul, and a considerate one. He saw which \^ay the land lay with me ; and, as we were cruising upon the station, and Newbury Port was a sort of rendezvous, he gave me permission to remain a month on shore. I blessed him in my heart, and I could have embraced his knees. Jly mother hafl been dead for several years — my pay was more than I re'iuired — I had nobody to assist out of mj 14^4 TALES OF THE BORDERS. prize-money ; so vhat I Imd savud a trifle. I went ashore llierefore, to spend a month with IMargaret, witli my pockets pretty comfortably lined. Why, the month was like a dream — it was like sailing round a romantic coast in fine weather, liut, before three weeks of it had passed, I prevailed on JIargaret to accompany me to the church, and we became man and wife ; and her father offered no objections. I found it hard to part with her ; and, at her entreaty, I would have given up the sea — but then 1 was in prospect of being made sailing master — and that was what 1 call having niv bread baked for life. 13ut — not to spin my yarn too long or too fine — some months after mv marriage, we were ordered upon another station ; and, a little before the orders arrived, a letter from my wife informed me that I was about to become a father. 1 longed to return to her, to fling my arms around her neck, and to kiss the cheek of our little one. But fate had ordered it otherwise. We left the station, and we attacked one of the French islands in the West Indies. Two boats' crews of us went ashore to storm their batteries. We had already made a sort of breach, and 1 was resolved to be one of the first to mount it — for I was determined to obtain my promotion to the rank of sailing-master if anything in my power could do it. I was the first, and I believe the only one. I was surrounded, wounded, made prisoner, and, for seven years, I was shut up in a Fsench prison, without hear- ing of either wife or child, and very little of my country, or how the game went on. At length a change of prisoners took place, and I was one of them. On the first day of my liberty, I wrote to my wife, and I wrote also to my old commander. Within six months, I received an appointment as sailing-master ; but months and months passed on, and I heard not a syllable concerning my wife. It made me miserable, and my promotion couldn't cheer me. I left no stone unturned to discover where she was, or whether she were dead or living ; but it was of no effect. Notiimg could I hfear concerning her; and many a tear have I sl.cd on the deep sea, and at the dead of night, for her sake. Such was the state of suspense I was in for eleven years after my promotion as sailing-master. About that time, our vessel had a turn-up with a French ship of the line, and a frigate ; and, at the very close of the action, when one of them, in fact, had struck her colours, a shot carried away my right arm. But, as 1 told you, I have a pension for it. But it soon healed, and I quitted the service. I went to Ame- rica, and to. Newbury Port, to inquire after my wife, my child, (if I had one,) and her parents. And there, all that I could learn was — that her father had died fifteen years ago, and that my wife, with an infant daughter, had gone to Eng- land. I re-crossed the Atlantic in the first vessel I could find. I determined to search for her through every town and village in the three kingdoms. On landing, 1 found that my old commander was also on shore. He felt for me, and he did everything in his power to assist me ; and we got paragraphs, setting forth all the particulars, inserted into all the newspapers, and they were copied into the papers throughout the country. What could I do more ? Well, about two months after I had been in England, a dejected, but beautiful young creature, with a child in her arms, came to my lodgings and inquired for me. Heaven and earth ! how 1 .started! — how I trembled .'— how my heart throbbed, when I gazed upon her countenance, for it bore the engraven lineaments of my wife. Scarce could I speak to her. A tide of feelings swelled in my bosom, as though my heart would burst. 1 thought — I feared a thousand things in a moment. She wept ; she told me that she had heard of my para- graph in the newspapers. That the circumstances related seemed to connect her with me — that her father's name was IMoffat — that he had married her mother at Newburv Port— luid other things she stated which the newspapers nicntionoil not. ' God bless thee, my child! my lost one!' cried T. Ar.d I flung my arms around the neck of the poor, weeping, and forlorn being. Her cheeks bespoke want, and her eyes misery. I ordered wine. I seated her on a sofa beside nie. I took her child in my arm and I kissed it ; but I saw the agony that was heaving in my daughter's breast, and 1 feared to ask her concerning its father. 1 saw that all was not I right. 'And where is thy mother, love.'' said I — ' Oh J ' does she live ? ' Yes ! yes ! — she lives ! — she lives !' sobbed my poor child, and placed her hands before her face and wept bitterly. ' She lives !— she lives !' she repeated ; ' but 1 cannot meet my dear n.otlier again.' 'My I^Iargaret, then, lives'' said I; 'thank Heaven! But weep not, my own child— my sweet one, do not weep. I am your father. I will protect you. Tell me your story ; and, by Heaven ! my girl, if you have been injured, I will avenge your wrongs.' But she wept more bitterly. I at length learned that my Margaret resided in Scotland, and that my daughter, against her mother's will, had, while a mere girl, married a thought- less young man, with whom she had come to London, and who had now all but forsaken her. I desired to know where I might see him, without his knowing who I wa; ; and, receiving the information 1 sought, I found him with a dozen others, thoughtless as himself, at a billiard table. One-armed and left-handed as I was, I played with the best of them ; and, without discovering my name, I endeavoured to ingratiate myself into the good opi- nion of my hopeful son-in-law ; and I succeeded. I found him more thoughtless than depraved. He was not beyond reformation ; and I asked him home to sup with me, and the J invitation was accepted. 1 There was a frankness in his manner that gave me hope of him. During Slipper, I endeavoured to sail round nim. and to cast the anchor of contrition in his heart. Without directly stating my object, or giving him reason to suspect what my intentions were, ' I spoke daggers' to his conscience, ' but I used none ;' and, when I saw that I had brought him to the right point, like King David before Nathan, to pass his own condemnation, I rang the bell, and his wife ana child entered the room. But I extended to hirn my solitary hand in forgiveness, and gave him a father's greeting. Jly scheme succeeded; and, from that day until this, he has been a husband of whom my daughter has had no cause to be ashamed. But the next day we all took our passage for Scotland where I was to meet my long-lost IMargaret. Every mile of our passage seemed a league, every hour a day. But we landed at Leith ; and, without stopping there an hour, I hired a coach, and we proceeded to Roxburghshire, ^hcre she resided. It was mid-day ; the coach drew up at the door. My daughter and her child were first handed out; then followed her husband, and 1 heard a scream of joy as my dear wife beheld her child. But she had just reached the door, with open arms, to welcome her, when 1 too step- ped upon the street. I hurried forward — ' Margaret !' I cried ; ' my IMargaret !' 'Thomas! — my husband ! my husband !' she exclaimed, and she flew to meet me. AVe had been parted for more than nineteen years, but we have never been separated an hour from that day until this. We are contented as the summer day is long— and, once for all, I say, I am as happy as any two-handed mac in his Majesty's dcn;inions." J W 1 L S O N'S ^Jfttovical, Cranitionarg, anX> Jima^inatibt TALES OF THE BORDERS. THE POACHER'S PROGRESS. The poacher is a common character ; and, although there is no guilt in his occupation itself, yet he \vhoisin the every- day practice of breaking the laws of man, from the very habits and fears attendant upon such practice, unconsciously becomes ready to break the laws of his Maker. The sin is as small on the part of a poor man killing a bird or a leveret for gain, as on the part of a rich man killing it for amuse- ment. Yet 1 have seldom known a confirmed poacher who .lid not eventually become a person of reckless and desperate character. His living in the constant fear of detection — the jeopardy of his calling — the secrecy of his actions — insensi- bly blunt and destroy his better feelings and princivles ; and I have often thought that our game-laws are liiws made for the amusement of the rich, at the expense of the morals of the poor. But, to drop this, I shall briefly sketch the progress of a poacher. Adam Black was the son of a farmer of the old school, who rented some hundred acres near a part of the debatable grounds between Roxburgh and Northumberland. Adam received a respectable education ; hut he was of idle habits from his boyhood upwards. It is but seldom that we hear much good of a person who is given to idleness; and we have a proverb that says, " If the devil find a man idle, he gene- rally sets him to work." There is much truth in the adage. Yet, it may almost be said, that, instead of being tempted, an idle man actually holds out a temptation to the tempter — he invites him to his destruction. I have said, however, that Adam Black was idle from his youth. When he became a lad, no portion of his thoughts was given to the business of the farm. Give Adam his dog and his gun, and that was aU he desired, all he cared for. He turned a deaf car to the admonitions of his father, and the counsels of his mother were laughed at. His gun by day, and his gins or his snares by night, were the sole occupants of his thoughts. But as yet he was not vicious; and his only faults were, that he was given to idleness and poaching. He, perhaps, had a redeem- ing quality in the wanimess of his heart, if it was not more than counterbahinced by the excess of his passions; for he was headstrong, vehement, revengeful. At the age of three and twenty, and while he yet lived with his father, Adam married. His parents offered no op- position to his wishes, for the object of his choice was a maiden of sweet ami gentle disposition, and of blameless character ; and, though poor, they trusted that her influence would arouse their son to habits of industry and exertion. Some said that she had made a good match, because, being the daugliter of a simple shepherd, she had married the only eon of a farmer; but there were others who observed more closely, and who saw deeper, that shook their heads, and said, " she w.as too good for his w ife." But it is frequently difficult to account for a woman's affections ; the cause that produced them is often mysterious, as their depth is intense. A thousand bards have sung of Wo.man's Love; ind, although ** nno port in a sense, Bat jiMt a rhymer like, by chance,' Id. Vol. 1. 1 shall interrupt my story for a minute's sj)ace, to sing of it also. Say not it is tlic fliclccrinR flame That all have felt — that all must feci — Whieli oomcB, and gocth as it came — Tliat (lectoth, clianReth, as the wlieel Of caprice or young fancy tunia ; Nay, 'tis the Btrong, the deep emotion Of the full heart whose fixoiatcd his crimes upon a scaffold. I CANNA BE FASHED! OR, WnjJE GRANT'S CONFESSIONS. IlEnu's a bonny day, sir," said old WiUie Grant, " and tlie Whitadder's in excellent trim — will yo get your gad and your creel, and we'll awa see what sort o' sport there is. If I'm no mista'en the trouts will rise as fast as ye throw the line to-day." " Oh, 1 canna be fashed," said the individual to whom he Bpoko. " What's that I hear ye say .?" added Willie, seriously — ' Yc canna be fashed ! can ye no ! Do ye think ye could be fashed to read the ' Cottagers o' Glenburnie .''' Ye would there see the meaning and the effects o' ' I canna be fashed,' illustrated. But if ye can be fashed to hear, I'll gie ye an example in my ain case ; and, I assure ye, that those four words, • I — canna — be — fashed' — (he spoke them very slowly, laying emphasis on each) — I say, sir, those four words hae cost me a thousand pounds twice told. I got them for naething ; but, certes, they proved a dear bargain in the lang run. They hae made rae acquainted wi' a sair skin, a sair heart, and an empty pocket. I hae nae remcm- bnince wha learned me the words, nor am I altogether cer- tain hut that they are words that just spring out o' the lazi- ness and indolence o' our dispositions, like weeds out o' a neglected soil. But wcel do I remember the first time when I was made to hae a feeling remembrance o' having used them. My faither was a bit snia' laird in East Lotliian — no very far frae Dunglass — and the property consisted o' between thirty and forty acres, so that he managed to bring tip a family o' five o' us very comfortably, and rather respect- nbly — and the more especially as my mother was a very- thrifty woman. I was the third o' the family ; and, as I was paun to say to ye, there was ae day that we were a' gilra- visliing about the floor, and wheeling ane anithcr in a little wheelbarrow that my faither Iiad got a cartv»Tight in Dun- bar to niak for us — (for he was a man that liked to see his bairns happy) — when, says he to me — " Willie, tie yer whitigs,* and dinna let yer shoon be shaughlin aff yer feet in that gaet, or ye maun gang bare- foot. Folk shouldna hae shoon that dinna ken boo to wear tliem." " I canna be fashed, faither," said I, and continued run- oing after the whcolbiurow ; hut, before ever I wist, and before I thought that I had done ill, he gied me a cuff i' the haffits, that made me birl h;ilf donner't by the check o' the lum.f * SUoe-tiet, * CliimnoT " Ay, man !" says he, " what'j that I hoar yc say — ' y« cantm he. f'nshcd !' Ijct me hear the words come ou*. o' your lijiR again if ye daur, and I'll knock the lili; out o' ye.' That was tlie first time that I jjarticularly remember o' having made use o' the j)hrase, and I am only sorry that the clout which my faither gied me, didna drive it out o my bead fr — 111 be fashed him !" Then up I would have got, shrugging my shouthers, and wriggling them frae side to side, and cried peevishly to one — " Where's my stockings.''" — and to another, "Where's my jacket .?" Then my faither would have cried out again — ' /'// irc4 it for ye ! ' Then I soon found it, and got out o' the house wi" the rest o' them. It was precisely the same thing when my brothers used to shake me in a morning, and say — " Get up, Willie — ye haena your ta-^k yet." I had invariably the same answer for them on sucn occa- sions also. I appeared as if naething could drive it out o' me. I have heard auld wives say, if ye were taking infants to I ony part o' the globe ye like, and keeping tbeta where thiy 150 TALES OF THE BORDERS. never would hear a human voice, nor speech o one kind nor another, that they would speak Hehrew ! Norv, I veiily beheve, that, if ye had done the same by me — if ye had taken me, -ivhen a week auld, into the deserts o Arawbia, wi' naethinp; but dummies round about me, and not a living soul nor a living thing endowed wi' the power o' speech allowed to see me or come near me — I say, that I verily believe the first words I would have spoken, would have been — " Icanna be fashed!" in guid braid Scotch. The words literally seemed born wi' me. And, as I was telling ye about getting up to learn my tasks in a morning, many, many is the time, in the cauldest day o' winter, that my favourite phrase has caused the tawse to warm my hands, when the fingers o' a' the rest o' the scholars were dinnlin wi' cauld, and they were hold- ing them at their mouths, and blowing their hot breath on them to take out the frost. Jly faither should have paid no coal-money for me. And more than this, the four insignifi- cant and carelessly-uttered words which I allude to, while I was at school, always kept me near the bottom o' the class or, if I rose one or two towards the top, it was purely OQ account o' others having been away from the school for a day, or half a day, and having to take the foot o' the cl' ss on account o' their absence, as a matter o' course. Often and often I could have trapped their heels, and taken my place aboon them — and the teacher kenned it as weel, and many a weary time has he said to me — " Oh, ye stupid stirk ! why do ye stand there ? — why didna ye trap him }" And once in particular, I remember, I answered him — " I couldna be fashed, sir !" " Fashed!" he cried, in a perfect fury, and he raised the tawse to his teeth — " fashed, sirrah!" he cried again — " then I'll learn ye to be fashed!" But o' a' the belabourings I ever got frae either faither or mother, for the same cause, they were naething to the school- master's. It's a miracle to me that there was a tail left on his tawse ; for he loundered me round the school and round the school ; and, aye as he loundered, he girned his teeth together, and he cried — " Heard ever onybody the like o' that! Canna be fashed, truly! — I'll fash ye, my man ! — I'll learn ye to gie me an answer o' that kind again!" But a' the thrashings that faither, and mother, and master could thrash at me, on every occasion, the confounded words were aye uppermost — they were perpetually at my tongue end. I was just an easy, indolent being — one that seemed disposed to steal through the world wi' my hands in pocket, as smoothly as possible. AVhen I grew to be a lad, I dare- say those that kenned me best were surprised that I could be fashed to gang a-courting, like other youngsters. But even then, when others would brush themselves up, and put on their half-best coat, and the like o' that, in order that they might look as smart as possible, I have thought to my- self, I wonder if I should shave and wash my face, and gie mysel a redd-up before I gang to see her the night ; but per- petually I used to say to mysel — " Ou, I daresay I canna be fashed — I'll do very weel as I am." And there wasna less than three or four young lasses that I had a particular liking for — and each o' them, I daresay, would made an excellent wife, and I could been very happy wi' ony o' them — but they all broke off acquaintance wi' me, " just," as they said to their friends, " because I was o' such a slovenly disposi- tion, that I couldna even be fashed to mak mysel purpose- like when I gacd to see a body." The like o' this was very galling to me ; but it hadna the effect o' making a better o' me. I couldna be fashed to he ony better, let come what might. " Losh-a-day," thought I, " I wonder what folk would hae me to be at, or how they can gie themsels sae meikle trouble, and be sae particular!" But, beyond all others, there was one young woman that I had an affection for in a very extraordinary degree. She was .as dear to me as the apple o' my ee ; and I am sure she oouid hae done onything wi' me — save to break me o' my habit o' sajing — " I canna be fashed." That was beyor.d her power. It was my fixed intention to marry her; "and, indeed, not only was the wedding-day set, but her wedding- gown and ray coat were made, and the ring was bought, and she had spoken to her bride'g maid ; and, besides buy- ing a sort o' things hcrsel, she had got her mother to have her providing packed up, and everything was in readiness just to be lilted to our new house — that is, the house we were to occupy. Now, when all this had token place, there was one bonny starlight night that we were walking toge ther, just: as happy as twa wood-pigeons, and talking owre the settlemeOt o' everything, that she said to me — . " What did the joiner say last night, Willie? — will he be sure no to disappoint us wi' the furniture ? — for I would like everything right at the very first." Eh ! weel-minded, my dear," says I ; " I really forgot to gang and see him, for I was sae tired when I got hanic last night, that — I couldna be fashed." i; " That was silly o' ye, man," said she; " it was Tcry thoaghtless. But I hope ye didna forget to gie in the mar- riage lines to the minister.^" (The session-clerk was ill at I; the time.) I " Save us a', hinny !" said I, " weel, I am sure that dings everything ! But, as sure as death ! as I told ye, I was sae tired, that I never minded a word about it till bed-time, when I had my waistcoat unbuttoned and my shoon off, and I couldna be fashed to put them on again, and, at ony rate, it was owre late." "• Very weel, W^illie," says she, and apparently a good deal hurt, " I wouldna thought it o' ye — but no matter." ■ No, love," said I, " it's no great matter, sure enough ; for this is only Saturday night, and I'U just call in at the manse in the by-going, as I gang hame, and tell the minister a about it. The thing can be done in a minute." " Indeed, no," said she, " though I should never be cried,* ye are to go no such way. This is Saturday night — the morn is the Sabbath, and the minister will be at his studies, and ye are not to disturb him upon my account." " Very well, love," said I, " we'll just have to put off a week, then." " Maybe sae," said she. But I thought there was some- thing unco dry in her manner o' saying " maybe sae.' However, as I couldna be fashed to call upon the minister that night, I took nae mair notice o' the subject. I could hardly get a word out o' her after this, for above an hour that I remained in her company. However, she rather came to a little, (for she was a kind-hearted Lassie,) when we were about to part ; and we promised faithfully to meet one another at the usual trysting-place, on the Wed- nesday night following, at eight o'clock, within a minute ; and I was to have everything arranged wi' the minister and the joiner in the meantime. On the Sunday morning, the minister passed me between the manse and the kirk, and says he, quite familiarly — foi he was a man that had nae stiffness about him — " Willie, I thought you was to have been cried to-day." " I beg your pardon, sir," said I ; " bjit it was all my neglect ; for I couldna be fashed until last night, and then I thought ye would be at your studies, and it was owre late to trouble ve." I " You were very considerate," said he, wi' a smile ; " but " I'll save you the trouble next week." " I'll be obliged to ye, sir," said I, taking off my hat. In going home, I overtook the joiner — no, I'm wTong, the joiner overtook me — and, after he had observed that it was a fine day, and I had said it was, and he had asked me what I thought o' the sermon, and so on, I said tvTj hira — " Now, I expect that ye'll no disappoint me wi' ihel furniture." * Cntd — PubUration of bamia. TALES OF THE BORDERS 151 ' Ye nccdna be feared o' that, lATr Grunt,"" s;iiJ he; "ye ki'ii yo proposed lli:it it was to be a ready-money transaction. It's no every day tliat we meet wi' jobs o' that kind, and ye may tak my word on't, I'll no disappoint ye — both for your sake and mine." " Weel," tlioii;,dit I, " that's twa tilings off my head — Isabella will surely be pleased now, (for they ca'd her Isa- bella.) I've been tortunate in mectia' wi' them baith — in klllin' twa birds wi' ae stanc." Hut the appointed Wednesday night came, and perfectly do I recollect, that a dark, dirty, gously night it was. I had full three miles to go to see her, and about seven o'clock I jiulled out my watch, and I went to the door. A sma', drizzling rain came battering on my face. I looked a' round iihout the heavens, and saw that there was nae appearance o' the night's ele;iring up, and, thinks I — " Weel, she'll ne'er think o' coming to meet me the night. She'll no be sac daft. It's o' nae use o' me gaun, and — I canna be fashed." So I went into the house again, and sat down quite con- tented ; and a night or twa after, the weather having settled, I went to see her at her faither's. The auld folk received me, as usual, very kindly ; and the auld man got a seat for me next the fire, and inquired if there were any news — while his guidwife asked me if I wadna hae my stock- ings changed, as the roads were very wet, and my feet might be damp — and I thanked her, and said " No." But there sat nu) irilcndmt, plaiting at a cap-border, or frill, or some- thing o' that sort, as stiflf and as silent as a stucco image, never letting on that she either saw or heard me. I spoke to her twice or thrice, and she gied a sort o' low, half cough, half /icm ! but not a syllable did I get out o' her. Never did she look to the side o' the house I was on. Her head seemed to be fixed in a blacksmith's vice in an opposite direction, and dear kens what sort o' cap or frill it was she kecpit plait, plait, plaiting at; but her task was never like to come to an end, and she keepit pingle, pingling, and nip, nip- ing at it wi' a knife, until my patience was fairly worn out. In my opinion her fingers had discovered the perpetual mo- tion ; and when I had sat until vexation and anxiety were like to choke mc, and I felt a sort o' ha ! — ha ! — liaing I in my throat; as though I could hae burst out into a fit o' pas- sion, or greeting, or I dinna ken what — and wi' a great struggle I got up, and I managed to say — " Will ye speak at the door, Isabella, dear." " / canna be fashed !" said she. sir ! sir 1 had ye experienced what I felt at that mo- ment. The lounderings o' my faither, my mother, and my dominie, and the slights o' former sweethearts, were a mere naething to what her answer caused me to endure. I ex- pected naetbing but that I would drop down upon the floor. " Oh, ye foolish lassie, ye I" said her mother, who was sorry for me, " what do ye mean ?" " Get upl'' said her fiiither. "I canna be fashed I" said she again, more cuttingly than before, and half turned her een upon me, as she said it, in a manner tliat gaed through my breast as if ye had drawn a sharp knife across it. Weel, sir, our names were ca'ed on the Sunday following, and between the first day o' their being published, and the day on which the marriage was to take place, I was three or four times baek and forward at her iaither's — but I got nae niair out o' her. I almost thought that I ought to stop the banns; but I thought, again, that that would be very unco hke, and very contrary to what I wished ; so I allowed them to go on, Sunday after Sunday. 1 never imagined but that she was just in the pet at me having broken my tryst, and that, like everybody that was in the pet, she would come out o't when she Ibund it neces- sary, and the sooner frae being left to hcrsel. But, on the very day we had fixed for the wedding, and when the best- man and I went to her faither's house, expecting to find her and the best-maid, and the whole o them in readiness to g" licl'ore the minister — to my unutterable astoiilshmciit and dismay, there was she, silting in hiT morning gown, as un- concerned as a judge, just as if naething had been to hapi)en. " JMercy mc ! Isabella!" saya I, "arc yc no ready.' — where's the women .''" " Ready!" rclurncd she — "what for f — what do ye mean? — what women .''" Oh ! guid gracious ! I'll never forget the sensation that I felt at that moment. I'm suqirised that I didna drop dead on the floor. " Isabella," said I, " are ye no perfectly aware that this is our wedding-day, and that wo were to be at the manse at twelve o'clock precisely .''" " Ay !" said she, " had yc kee])it your tryst at such a time, and at such a place, nae doubt this would have been the day, but ye couldna be fashed to keep it then — and I canna he fashed now." " Oh, confound it!' cried I, " Isabella, do yc want to drive mo mad i" " I dinna think there's ony danger o' that," replied she. Vexation and surprise put me fairly bcyont myself — I wa3 taken in a moment. " Weel !" exclaimed I, " ye'll rue it, Isabella ! ye'll rue it — there shall nae woman mak a fool o' me !" " Nor man o' me," said she. " Be it sae," said I ; " yet, guidncss me ! you're no in earnest }" " Earnest !" said she, " I tell you I canna be fashed." At the sound o' the tenible words, I banged out o' the house. I never stopped till I came to Dunbar, and there, at the very moment I arrived, I took the coach for Edinburgh • and there I stopped but two days till I set oft" for London, for my heart was in such a terrible state o' perturbation, that I could have gone to the world's end, ay, and round it, and round it again, if I had had the means, in order that I might have found rest. It seems that poor Isabella thought that I would come back — and the best-man persuaded her that I would — and she went to dress hersel, and sent for the best-maid. But little did she understand the character she had to deal wi'. I was either a" laziness, or a' desperation. I knew no medium ; and I have no doubt, that, before she got her hair dressed, and her gown fairly on, I was half-way to Edinburgh — for I flew to Dunbar as though furies had pursued me. But, sir, the upshot was, that Isabella died a spinster, and I am a bachelor until this day, and will be, until the last day o' my existence ; and thus did the four nevcr-enough- to-be-detestcd words — " I canna be fashed," place eternity, yea, an infinite chasm, between me and the only woman for whose sake I could have laid down my life, as cheaply as though it hadna been worth a sixpence. Ye may think that the few instances I have related to ye and their consequences, would have been enough to have cured me o' ever making use o' tha words again — hut ye shall see. Now, you'll observe, that, before the time I'm speaking o", my faither and mothei were both dead, as well as two o' their family, so that there were but three o" iis left, and we sold the property, and dinded the money amongst us in equal shares. Therefore, oihcn I got to London, I was not altogether bare-handed. Now, to my shame, I must confess that I had not been long there, till the remembrance of Isa- bella, and the cause that had provoked me to come to desert her, were almost forgotten ; for ye mu.'^t remember, that absence makes many changes — and there is many a bonny face in London. So, after I had looked about me for a week or two, I thought to myself, that I saw nobody doing better than the keepers o' wine and spirit vaults. It seemed a' ready money — it was just nipper after nipper — that is, plasg after glass, owre the counter — the money down, and done wi" it. I resolved to become a wine-vault keeper, and I 152 TALES OF THE BORDERS. (ooketl around to see wliore such premises were to kt. At length I pitched upon a shop tliat I tliought would suit me exactly, on the north side of Clcrkcnwell Street, and nearly facing Jerusalem passage. There were a very great number o' compositors and press- oien, arid bookbinders and gold-beaters, and other trades, in the immediate neighbourhood ; aiul I understood that thev were in the habit o' making the vaults which I was about to t.ike, (heir pay-house and bouse-o'-call. So I took the house, and entered upon the business, and, in a very short time, I thought very little about Isabella, or the grief she had caused rae. I hadna long opened the house until the compositors and the pressmen, the bookbinders, gold-beaters, and others, a' came back to it. They were weei-spoken, civil lads. They spent a deal o' money, and I certainly tried to be as civil and obliging to them as I could ; and, in short, they called me "a fine chap," and "the best Scotsman out of all sorts they had ever met with." AVeel, in a week or two, some o them began to get on to my slates — not by name — for I didna like to ask it; it was impudent ; and, thought I, oh, it might spoil their custom at ony rate — and I canna be fashed — it would be an awfu' trouble WTiting names upon a slate, e.specially the names o' so many. But I knew them a' by head-mark, and I thought there was no need for it. However, one got into my books, and another got into my books ; but, no, I am wrong there again, for they only got onto the slates — I couldna be fashed to carry them into the books ; I thought there was nae need for it ; they generally paid upon the Saturdaj- night, and there was nae fear o' me forgettin'. But, in a short time, there never was a Saturday night but there was always some of my debtor customers amissing ; and when I inquired for any o' them, the reply was — "Oh, you're one of his ghosts, are you? well, I wish you nay get it — he's got the bag." * " So, so," I would say, " and he is off with his finger in n;y bag too." Well, in this way I lost more money than I can tell. But I lost it in another way also, and from the same cause. You know that in London every public-house has a porter-walk, or a beer-walk, as they call it, the same as the rounds of a milk-woman here, and they go round twice a-day, at dinner- time and supper-time. Well, to my surprise, in a few months I got the best beer-walk in all London. I couldna thinlc how it was. I was almost rivalling the Alderney dairy which was at my very hand, for I had to engage two pot-boys to carry out my supply. But I gave credit ; I trusted to the lads to keep an account of what they took out, and they trusted to me. I said, " 1 couldna he foshed wi' the like o' that ;" but they said they gave me the names and number o' the individuals with whom they had intrusted both porter and pewter pots ; and if I did not mark it down and see after it, it was my look out and not theirs. In this w.'iy, I belifeve, I lost five butts of porter within twelve months. Yet, sir, these were not the only griefs and the only losses that the four words which are the subject of my story, have brought upon me. Not only did I fre- quently neglect to insert in my own books what I had sent out on credit, but I as frequently delayed to mark dovm what bad been sent to me by the brewer or distiller, and said, " Hoot, I haena time — I canna be fashed to enter it to-day, I will do it the morn, or the next day." But the next day and the next came, and I could be less fashed than ever, and the entry rcnuiined untouched. Rfaiiy a hoa^-y loss I am sensible this has caused rae; and often has it made me appear as a rogue when my intentions were honest. Sir, what I have told ye is but a saiuple o' what " / canna be fashed" has cost me. I could relate to you a Gtjt the liag—i. t. piiid off, or iliscliargcd. thousand o' its consequences ; .5ut half a dozen are a'; good, and, perhaps, better than a thousand, by way o example. I had betn about fifteen 3'ears in business, when I became bond for a friend that I thought I could have trusted as my o^\'n brother, to the extent o' tlixee thousand pounds. I was certain he was perfectly solvent, and from the acquaintance I had had o' him, I could nae mair hae doubted him than i could hae doubted that I was the son o' my mother. But a few weeks after I had signed the bond, a mutual acquaint- ance called upon me, and, says he — " Grant, you have acted like a fool." " I dinna doubt," says I, for I was perfectly aware that I often had ; " but what do ye mean to be at .'•" " Why," says he, " So-and-so has taken you in. He is preparing to be olf, bag and baggage, for America, and you will be left to pay the piper." " Oh, ye are a suspicious wretch," saj's I ; " man, I couldna believe the like o' that if ye were to swear it to me." " Believe it or not," says he, " if you don't see after it instantly, your three thousand pounds are gone." " Hoot ! babbles !" said I, " the man's diift ! — do ye think I dinna ken him better than that .'' The man is as sure as the bank. I would be the last man he would injure a far- thing — I ken that weel enough. But, at ony rate, I am par- ticularly busy, and I canna be fashed wi' ony nonsense o' the kind ; so ye may keep yoursel easy, and 1 am only sorry that )'e should hae such an opinion o' ony friend o' mine." " Canna be fashed !" cried my acquaintance, hurrying from the shop ; " what a deuced fool I Grant, you'll repent it." I laughed at the man, for I had perfect confidence in mj friend, and I knew that he had property worth three times the money that I was bond for him. On the very next day, the same acquaintance came into my house very hastily, and, says he — " Grant, if you do"'t look after your money, and that very sharply, you will hnu your friend's property is no go, and you are in for paying 3'our three thousand." " Ye dinna mean to say the like o' that," said I. " Say that, you blockhead !" returned my acquaintance^ " wherefore wouldn't you believe me yesterday .''" And placing his arm through mine, he dragged me out of the house. We reached the habitation of the worthy gentleman for whom I was surety in the sum of three thousand precious pounds sterling. But he was off — off like a bird whose nes' has been robbed of its eggs. Twelve hours before, he had sailed for America, or some other quarter of the globe ; but where I never knew. " Come home. Grant," said my friend, " don't distress yourself now." '• Oh, dinna speak to me," says I — "I canna be fashed ; my three thousand pounds! — my poor three thousand pounds!" We went into a tavern, and Idrank out o'pure desperation until I could hardly stand ; and as we were going home I fell, and I dislocated my arm, or 1 broke it ; at ony rate, I did something to it, and it never was like to get better ; and my friends advised me to send for a surgeon — but " What to do wi' a surgeon ?" says I — " I canna be fashed wi' them. The arm will get better itsel'." But, from that day until the present hour, I have never had the right use o' it. It m.ade me useless, in a great measure, in the way o' business. Therefore, I sold the good-will o' my house, and wi' the other little remains o' what I had saved, I came down here, just to live as easy and as cheap as possible. And now sir, as ye have seen what a great gainer I have been by the words "/ caJiim be fashed,^' 1 hope and implore ye will never use thera again, but take a warning by the e.xample o' Willie Grant. W I L S N'S fI}ts(tortcaI, ©ratittionarg, anli Imasinati&« TALES OF THE BORDERS THE ROYAL BRIDAL; OR, THE KING MAY COME IN THE CADGER'S WAY. Early in July, in the year of grace 1503, Lamlierton Moor presented a proud and right noble spectacle. Upon it was outspread a city of pavilions, some of them covered with cloth of the gorgeous purple and glowing crimson, and de- corated with ornaments of gold and silver. To and fro, upon brave steeds, richly caparisoned, rode a hundred lords and their followers, with many a score of gay and gallant kBights and their attendant gentlemen. Fair ladies, too, the love- liest and the noblest in the land, were there. The sounds of music from many instruments rolled over the heath. The lance gleamed, and the claymore flashed, and war-steeds neighed, as the notes of the bugle rang loud for the tourna- ment. It seemed as if the genius of chivaky had fixed its court upon the heath. It may bs meet, however, that we say a word or two con- cerning Lamberton, for though, now-a-days, it may lack the notoriety of Gretna in the annals of matrimony, and though its " run of business" may be of a humbler character, there was a time when it could boast of prouder visiters than ever graced the Gretna blacksmith's temple. To the reader, therefore, who is unacquainted with our eastern Borders, it may be necessary to say, that, at the northern boundary of the lands appertaining to the to^\'n of Berwick-upon-Tweed, and about three miles, a furlong, and few odd j'ards from that oft-recorded good town, a djy stone-wall, some thirty inches in height, runs from the lofty and perpendicular sea- banks over a portion of what may he termed the fag-end of Lammermoor, and now forming a separation between the laws of Scotland and the jurisdiction of the said good town ; and on crossing to the northern side of this humble but important stone-wall, you stand on the lands of Lamberton. Rather more than a stone-throw fi-om the sea, the great north road bet^veen London and Edinburgh forms a gap in the wall aforesaid, or rather " dyke ;" and there, on either side of the road, stands a low house, in which Hymen's high priests are ever ready to make one flesh of their worshippers. About a quarter of a mile north of these, may still be traced something of the ruins of the kirk, where the princess of England became the bride of the Scottish king, and the first link of the golden chain of Union, which eventually clasped the two nations in one, may be said to have been formed. The gay and giJlant company were assembled on Lflm- berton, for within the walls of its kirk, the young, ardent, and chivalrous James IV. of Scotland was to receive the hand of his fair bride, Margaret of England, whom Dunbar describes as a " Presclic rose, of cullor reid and white." The wild heath presented all the splendour of a court, aad 20. Vol. I. the amusements of a crowded city. Upon it were thousands of spectators, who had come to witness the royal exhibitions; and the first durable bond of amity between two rival nations. Some crowded to behold the tourneyings of the knights with sword, spear, and battle-axe ; others to witness the representation of plays, VTitlen " expressly for the occa- sion;" while a third party were delighted with the grotesque figures and positions of the monis-dancers ; and a fourth joined in, or were spectators of, the humbler athletic exer- cises of •m-estling, leaping, putting the stone, and throwing the hammer. All, too, were anxious to see the young king, whose courage and generosity were the theme of minstrels, and of whom one sayeth— " And ye Cliristian princes, whosoever ye be. If ye be destitute of a noble captajTie, Take James of Scotland for his audacitie And proved manliood, if ye mil laud attayne." But the young monarch was as remarkable for his gallantry and eccentricity, as for his generosity and courage; and no one seemed able to tell whether or not he lodged in the mag- nificent pa\-ilion over ivhich the royal standard of Scotland waved, or whether he intended to welcome his royal bride by proxy. But our story requires that, for a time, we leave princes, knights, and tournaments, and notice humbler personages and more homely amusements. At a distance from the pavilion, the tomneyings, the music, the plays, and other exhibitions, was a crowd composed of some seven or eight hundred peasantry engaged in and ■nitnessing the athletic games of the Borders. Near these were a number of hum- bler booths, in which the spectators and competitors might regale themselves with the spirits and tippenny then in use. Amongst the competitors was one called JJeikle Robin, or Robin Meikle. He was strength personified. His stature exceeded sis feet; his shoulders were broad, his chest round, his limbs well and strongly put together. He was a man of prodigious bone and sinews. At throwing the hammer, at putting the stone, no man could stand before him. He distanced all who came against him ; and, while he did so, he seemed to put forth not half his strength, while his skiU appeai-ed equal to the power of his ann. Now, amongst the spectators of the sports, there stood one who was known for many miles around by the appellation of Strong Andrew. He was not so tall, by three inches, as the conqueror of the day ; nor could he measure with him either across the shoulders or around the chest; and, in fact, he was rather a thin man than othenvise, nor did he appear a powerful one — but his bones were well set. His sinews were all strength — they were not incumbered with flesh. He was as much a model of actirity and suppleness, as Meikle Robin was of bodil}- power. Now, Andrew was a native of Eyemouth ; he was about three and thirty years of age, and he united in his person the callings of a fisherman a-id cadger; or, in other words, Andrew, being without motlier sister, wife, or servant, sold himself the fish which he had 154 TALES OF THE BOKDERS caught. His domestic cstablisiment" consisted of a TeiT large and a very wise water-dog, and a small pony ; and with the last-mentioned animal he carried his fish around the country. For several days, and on the day in question, he had brought his store for sale to the camps or pavilions at Lamberton, where he had found a ready and an excellent market. Xow, as Andrew stood and witnessed the cham- pionship of Meikle Robin, his blood boiled within him ; and " Oh," thought he, " but if I had onybody that I could trust to tak care o' the Galloway and my jacket, and the siller, but I wad tak the conceit out o' ye, big 33 ye are." Andrew possessed his country's courage and its caution in equal proportions ; and, like a ■wise man, he did not choose to trust his money by risking it to strangers. In such a motley company it would not be safe to do so now a-days ; but it would have been much less so then. For, at that time, and especially on the Borders, the law of mine and thine was most imperfectly understood. But Andrew's deter- mination to humble the cliampion was well-nigh overcoming his caution, when the former again stepped into the ring, and cast off his jacket for a wrestling bout. He stood looking round him for a minute ; and it was e\'ident that every one was afraid to enter the lists against him. Andrew could endure it no longer ; and he was savin? — " Will ony person tak charge o' my Galloway r" | When a voung man of middle stature, and whose dress bespoke him to be a domestic of one of the noblemen who ' had come to witness the royal festival, and grace it with their presence, entered the lists. Without even throwing off his bonnet, he stretched out his arms to encounter the champion, who met him — somewhat after the fashion that , Goliath met David — with contempt. But the first grasp of the stranger, as he seized his arms above the elbows, instead of throwing them round his waist, (as was, and is the un- scientific practice of the Borders,) informed Robin that he had no common customer to deal with. Robin, as a wrest- ler, in a great measure trusted to mere strength and trip- ping, lie knew nothing of turning an antagonist from his centre of gravity by a well-timed and well-directed touch. He therefore threw his arms around the back of his oppo- nent, (so far as the grasp which the other had got of them would permit,) with the intention of giving him a " Hawick hug," but he found he could not join his hands together so as to effect his purpose, and his strength could not accom- plish it. Ignorant of his antagonist's mode of attack, he had allowed him an advantage over him ; and when he endea- voured to gain it by tripping his heels, the other suddenly changed his feet, favoured Robin with a " Devonian kick," and suddenly dashing his bended knee against his person, Robin lost his footing, and fell upon his back with the stran- ger above him. The spectators shouted ; and Andrew, mounting his pony, exclaimed aloud — " Weel dune, stranger — I'm as glad as though I had gotten a gowden coin." Now, it is but justice to Andrew to say, that he had re- peatedly defeated Meikle Robin, both at -wrestling, cudgel- playing, and every athletic exercise ; but I shall give the reader an account of his having done so upon one occasion, in his own words, as it is necessary for the forwarding of our narrative. Andrew went to Lamberton with his fish on the follow- ing (\:— "^Tien her back is bowed, and her lovely e'e. Once bricht as a beam frae the sun, is dim~. She'll be still my bit lassie to me. Stupid auld body — wicked auld body — Love, like the gowan, 's a winter liver The smile o' a wife is the sun o' its life, An' her bosom a brae where it blooms for ever. A few minutes after Andrew had concluded his song, the fair daughter of their hostess entered the house. Andrew's first glance bespoke the lover, and the smile with which she returned it, shewed that the young fisherman and cadger was not an unaccepted wooer. " By my sooth, fair maiden," said the stranger, " and thy sweet face doesna belie its fame ; admiration fails in painting the loveliness of thy glowing cheeks, and thine een might make a moonbeam blush !" He seemed practised in the art of gallantry, and poured into her ear other compliments in a similar strain. She hung her head, and turned it aside from him, as a woman will when flattered, or when she wishes to be flattered, but she did not rise to depart ; and he felt that the incense which he oft'ered to her beauty was not unacceptable. Bat the words and the attentions of the stranger were as daggers in the ears, and as wormwood in the heart of Andrew. The mischief rive his smooth tongue out o' his headl" thought Andrew ; " but though I hae nae chance in speak- 136 TALES OF THE BOEDERS mg balderdash wi' him, and tliough he did tliraw nie (and It was maybe by an unmanly quirk after a',) I'll le'. her see, if he has the glibest tongue, wha has the manlies arm !" Neither love nor liquor, however, can allay the cravings of a hungry stomach, and the stranger (who e-\-idently be- guiled Andrew to drink more than the portion that ought to have fallen to him) called for something to eat, by way of a relish. " O sir," said Nancy Hewitt, their hostess, " I'm vcrra sorry an' vexed that I hae naething in the house that I could gie ye — naething o' kitchen kind but the haddocks which Andrew left this forenoon ; and I hae been sae thrang wi' folk gaun back an' forret to Lamberton, that they're no gutted yet. But if ye could tak them, ye are welcome to them." " Gut two, then, good dame, and prepare them," said the stranger. " I doubt, sir, twa wnna do," said she, " for they're but sma' — I had better gut thrie." " Certainly, gul thrie," said Andrew ; " I brought the stranger in — and what is a haddie, or what are they worth ?" for Ajidrew was anxious that the attention of his companion should be turned to anything, were it only withdrawn from Janet's face. " You are a generous-hearted fellow," said the stranger, " and gul thrie shall I call you, if we meet again ?" HaWng therefore partalcen of his repast, he proposed that they should again fill the stoup to friendship's gi'owth; and although Andrew was ^^■roth and jealous because of the words wb'ch ho had spoken, and the attention he had shewn to fair Janet, he was not made of materials to resist the proposition to have another cup. But while they were yet drinking it, Andrew's pony, which had repeatedly raised •.ts fore foot and struck it heavily on the ground, as if calling on its master to " come," being either scared, or its patience being utterly exhausted, .set off at a, oariterfromtbo door. He had rushed out without his bonnet, but, before he reached the road, it was fully forty yards a-head of him, and the louder he called on it, the nearer did the pony increase its pace to a gallop. Andrew had scarce reached the door, when the stranger drew out a well-lined purse, and, after jerking it in his hand, he again placed it in his pocket, and more boldly than before renewed his gallantries to fair Janet. Emboldened, how- ever, by what he conceived to have been his recent success, he now overshot the mark ; and, as Andrew again reached the house, he was aroused by the cries of — "Mother! Mother! — Andrew! Andrew !'' Old Nancy's voice, too, broke upon his ears at its high- est scolding pitch ; but he could only distinguish the word " Scoundrel !" Ho rushed into the room, and there he beheld his own Janet struggling in the embrace of the stranger. '• Villain !" cried Andrew, and the other started roun'dit ; Sum men Ues serin, and I noch't ane !" All around wore a glad and a sunny look, and, while the morning was yet young, the sound of the salute from the cannon on the ramparts of Berwick, announced that the royal bride was approaching. The pavilions occupied a com- manding situation on the heath, and the noble retinue of the princes could be observed moving along, their gay colours flashing in the sun, a few minutes after they issued from the walls of the to^^Tl. A loud, a long, and a glad shout burst from the Scottish host, as they observed them approach, and hundreds of knights and nobles, dashing their glittering spurs into the sides of their proudly caparisoned steeds, rode forth to meet them, and to give their welcome, and offer their first homage to their futiu'c queen. There was a movement and a buzz of joy throughout the multitude ; and they moved towards the ancient kirk. The procession that accompanied the young princess of England into Scotland drew near ; at its head rode the proud Earl of Surrey, the Earl of Northumberland, warden Oi the eastern marches, with many hundreds more, the flower of England's nobility and gentry, in their costliest array. In the procession, also, were thousands of the inhabitants of Northumberland; and the good citizens of Berwick-upon- Tweed, headed by their captain. Lord Thomas Darcj', and the porter of their gates, Mr Christopher Clapham, who was appointed one of the trustees on the part of the king ot England, to see that the terms of his daughter's jointure were duly fulfilled. There, however, was less eagerness on the part of the young monarch to behold his bride than on that of his sub- jects. We will not say that he had exactly imbibed the principles of a libertine, but it is well kno'W'n that he was a gallant in the most liberal signification of the terra, and that his amours extended to all ranks. He had, therefore, until he had well nigh reached his thirtieth j'ear, evaded the curb of matrimony ; and it was not until the necessity of his mar- riage, for the welfare of his country, was urged upon him by his nobles, that he agreed to take the hand of young Mar- garet of England. And of her it might have been truly Eaid, that his " Peppy \ras a younp thinfr. Just entering in her teena," for she had hardly completed her fourteenth year. But she was a well-'n gathered on his brow. In a moment, Andrew perceived that bis victor-'wrestler — liis crony in Lucky Hewitt's — the tempter of his Janet — the man whom he had felled mth a blow, and whose blood he had drawn — and the King of Scotland, was one and the same person. '' Guid giacious 1" exclaimed Andrew, " I'm a done man !" " Seize him !" said the king. But ere he had said it, Andrew recollected that if he had a good right hand, he bad a pair of as good heels ; and if be liad trusted to the one a few minutes before, he would trust to the latter now, and away he bounded like a startled deer, caiTying his sword in his hand. A few seconds elapsed before the astonished servants of the king recovered presence of mind to pursue him. As he fled, the dense crowd that encircled the amphitheatre sur- rounded hira ; but many of them knew him — none bad for- gotten his terrible corn-age — and, although they heard the cry re-echoed bj' the attendants of the monarch to seize him, they opened an avenue when he appi'oached, and permitted hira to rush through them. Though, perhaps, the fear of the sword which he brandished in his hand, and the terrible eft'ects of which the}- had all mtnessed, contributed not less than admiration of his com'age, to procure him bis ready egress from amongst them. He rushed towards the sea-banks, and suddenly disap- peared where they seemed precipitous, and was lost to his pursuers ; and after an hour's search, they returned to the king, stating that they had lost trace of hira, and could not find him. "Go back, ye bull-dogs!" exclaimed our monarch, angrily; " seek him — find him — nor again enter our presence until ye again bring liim bound before us at Holyrood." Thev therefore again proceeded in quest of the unfortu- nate fugitive ; and the monarch having conducted his royal brido to the pa^^lion, cast off his jacket of black velvet, ajid arrayed himself in one of cloth of gold, vnih edgings of purple and of sable fur. His favourite steed, caparisoned to axrry two, and with its panoph' embroidered with jewels, was brought before his pavilion. The monarch approached the door, leading his queen in his hand. He lightly vaulted into the saddle — he again took the hand of his bride, and placed her behind him ; and in this manner, a hundred peers and nobles following in his train, the King of Scotland con- ducted his youngs queen through the land, and to the palace of his fathers. The people shouted as the roval cavalcade departed, and Scotch and English voices joined in the cry of — " Long live Scotland's king and queen." Yet there were some who were silent, and who thought that poor Andrew, the fisherman, the champion of the dav, had been cruelly treated, thougli they knew not his offence. Those who knew him, said — " It bangs a' ! we're sure Andrew never saw the king in his life before. He never was ten miles out o' Eyeraoutli ill his days. We ha'e kenned him since a callant, and never heard a word laid against his character. The king mast hae taken him for somebody else — and he was foolish to run for it." But, while the multitude shouted, and joined in the festi- vities of the day, there was one that hui-ricd tiirough the midst of them, ■N>Tinging her hands, and weep.ng as she went — even poor Janet. At the moment when she was roused from the stupefaction of feeling produced by the horrors of the conflict, and when her arms were outstretched to welcome her hero, as he was flying to them in triumph, she had seen him led before his prince, to receive his praise and his royal gifts ; but, instead of these, she heard him denounced as a traitor, as the king's words were echoed round. She beheld bini fly for safety, and armed men pursuing him. She was bewildered — wildly bewildered. But every motion gave place to anguish ; and she returned to her mother's house alone, and sank upon her bed, and wept. She could scarce relate to her parent the cause of her giief ; but others, who had been wtnesscs of the regal fes- tival, called at Widow He^^'itt's for refi-eshmcnt, as they retm-nedhome, and from them shcgathercd that her intended son-in-law had been the champion of the daj* ; but that, when he had been led forward to receive the purse from the hands of the king, the monarch, instead of besto^nng it, denounced him as a traitor; "and when he fled." added they, " his majesty ordered him to be brought to him dead or alive !" — for, in the days of our fathers, men used the license that is exemplified in the fable of the Black Crows, quite as much as it is used now. The king certainly had commanded that Andrew should be brought to him ; but he had said nothing of his being brought dead. Nancy lifted her hands in astonishment as high as her ceiling, (and it was not a high one, and was formed of rushes) — " Preserve us, sirs !" said she, " ye perfectly astonish me athcgither ! Poor chield ! I'm sure Andrew wadna harm a dog ! A traitor ! say ye, the king caed him ? That's some- thing very bad, isn't it .'' An' sui'ely na, na, Andrew couldna be guilty o't — the king maun be a strange sort o' man." But, about midnight, a gentle knocking was heard at the window, and a well-kno^vn voice said, in an under tone — " Janet ! Janet ! it is me !" " It is him, mother ! it is Andrew ! they haena gotten him yet !" And she ran to the door and admitted him ; and, when he had entered, she continued, " O Andrew ! what, in the name o' wonder, is the meaning o' the king's being in a passion at ye .'' What did ye say or do to him ? — or what can be the meaning o't.'" " It is really very singular, Andrew," interrupted the old woman ; " what hae ye done ? — what is really the meaning u't ?" " Meaning !" said Andrew, " ye may weel ask that ! I maun get awa' into England this very night, or my life's no worth a straw ; and it's ten chances to ane that it may be safe there. Wha is the king, think yc? — now, just think wha ?" "Wha is the king !" said Nancy, with a look, and in a tone of astonishment — " I dinna comprehend ye, Andrew— what do ye mean.'' Wha can the king be, but just the king." " Oh I" said Andrew, " ye mind the chield that cam here wi' me the other night, that left the gowd noble for the three baddies that him and I had atwccn us, and that I gied a clout in the haffets to, and brought the blood o^vre his lips. for his behaviour to Jenn;,- ! — yon was the king!" " Yon the V"n2 !" cried Janet. 160 TALES OF THE BORDERS. " Yon the king !" ei?claimed her mother ; " and hae I really had the king o' Scotland in my house, sitting at my fireside, and cooked a supper for him ! Weel, I think, yon the king ! Aha ! he's a bonny man !" " O mother !" exclaimed Janet ; " bonny here, bonny there, dinna talk sae — he is threatening the life o' poor Andrew, who has got into trouble and sorrow on my account. Oh, dear me ! what shall I do, Andrew ! — Andrew !" she continued, and wrung her hands. " There's just ae thing, hinny," said he ; "I must en- deavour to get to the other side o' the Tweed, before folk are astir in the morning ; so I maun leave ye directly, but I just ventured to come and bid ye fareweel. And there's just ae thing that I hae to say and to request, and that is, that, if I darena come back to Scotland to marry ye, that ye will come owre to England to me, as soon as I can get into some way o' providing for ye. Will ye promise, Jenny ?" " O yes ! yes, Andrew !" she cried, " I'll come to ye — for it is entirely on my account that ye've to flee. But I'll do mair than that ; for this very week I will go to Edin- burgh, and I will watch in the way o' the king and the queen, and on my knees I'll implore him to pardon ye ; and, if he refuses, I ken what I ken." " Na, na, Jenny, dear," said he, " dinna think o' that — I wad rather suffer banishment, and live in jeopardy for ever, than that ye should place yoursel in his power or in his presence. But what do ye ken, dear ?" " Ken !" replied she ; " if he refuses to pardon ye, I'll threaten him to teU the queen what he said tome, and what offers he made to me when ye was running out after the povny." Andrew was about to answer her, when he started at a heavy sound of footsteps approaching the cottage. " They are in search o' me !" he exclaimed. Instantly a dozen armed men entered the cottage. " We have found him," cried they to their companions without ; " the traitor is here." Andrew, finding that resistance would be hopeless, gave up the sword which he still carried, and suffered them to bind his arms. Jenny clung around his neck and wept. Her mother sat speechless with terror. " Fareweel, Jenny, dear !" said Andrew — " fareweel ! — Dinna distress yoursel sae — things mayna turn out sae ill as we apprehend. I can hardly think that the king will be sae cruel and sae unjust as to tak my life. Is that no your opinion, sirs .''" added he, addressing the armed men. " We are not to be your judges," said he who appeared to be their leader ; " ye are our prisoner, by his Majesty's command, and that is a' we ken about the matter. But ye are denounced as a traitor, and the king spares nane such." Poor Janet shrieked as she heard the hopeless and cruel words, and again cried— " But the queen shall ken a' !" Jenny's arms were rudely torn from around his neck, and he was dragged from the house ; and his arms, as I have stated, being bound, he was placed behind a horseman, and his body was fastened to that of the trooper. In this man- ner he was conducted to Edinburgh, where ho was cast into prison to await his doom. Within two days, Janet and her mother were seized also, at the very moment when the former was preparing to set out to implore his pardon — and accused of harbouring and concealing in their house one whom the king had denounced as guilty of treason. Janet submitted to her fate without a murmur, and only said — " Weel, if Andrew be to suffer upon my account, I azn willing to do the same for his. But surely neither you nor the king can be sae cruel as to harm my poor auld mother !* "Oh, dear! dear!" cried the old woman to those who came to apprehend her — •' Was there ever the like o' this seen or heard tell o' ! Before I kenned wha the king was, I took him to be a kind lad and a canny lad, and he canna sav but I shewed him every attention, and even prevented An- drew frae striking him again ; and what gratification can it be to him to tak awa the life o' a lone widow, and a bit helpless lassie ?" But, notwithstanding her remonstrances, Nancy Hewitt and her beautiful daughter were conducted as prisoners to the metropolis. On the fourth day of his confinement, Andrew was sum- moned before King James and his nobles, to receive his sen- tence and undergo its punishment. The monarch, in the midst of his lords, sat in a large apartment in the castle ; armed men, with naked swords in their hands, stood around, and the frown gathered on his face as the prisoner was led into his presence. Andrew bowed before the monarch, then raised his head and looked around, with an expression on his countenance which shewed that, although he expected death, he feared it not. "How now, ye traitor knave !" said the king, sternly; "do ye deny that ye raised your hand against our roval person ? " No ■" was the brief and bold reply of the dauntless fisherman. " Ye have heard, kinsmen," continued the monarch, "his confession of his guiltiness from his own lips — what punish, ment do ye award him ?" " Death ! the traitor's doom !" replied the nobles. "Nay, troth," said James, "we shall be less just than merciful ; and because of his brave bearing at Lamberton, his life shall be spared — but, certes, the hand that was raised against our person shall be struck off. — Prepare the block 1" Now, the block was brought into the midst of the floor, and Andrew was made to kneel, and his arm was bared and placed upon it — and the executioner stood by with his drawn sword, waiting the signal from the king to strike off the hand, when the fair young queen, with her attendants, en- tered the apartment. The king rose to meet her, saying— " What would my fair queen .''" " A boon ! a boon ! my liege," playfully replied the blooming princess ; " that ye strike not off the hand of this J audacious man, but that }''e chain it for his life." \ " Be it so, my fair one," said the king ; and, taking the sword of the executioner in his hand, he touched the kneel- ing culprit on the shoulder with it, saying — " Rise up Sir Anduew Gut-thbie, and thus do we chain your offending hand !" — the young queen at the same moment raised a veil with which she had concealed the features ot bonny Janet, and the king taking her hand, placed it in Andrew's. " My conscience !" exclaimed Andrew.. .".m I in exist- ence ! — do I dream, or what ? — O Jenny, woman ! — O your Majesty ! — what shall I say.'" " Nothing," replied the monarch, "but the king cam' in the cadger's way — and Sir Andrew Gut-thrie and his bonny bride sliall be provided for." i ^V 1 L S O N ' S ?l}t)3(ton'cal, CTraJjtttonarj), ano SmajtiiattbJ r^^^ TALES OF THE BORDERS. THE FAA'S REVENGE. A TALE OF THE BORDER GirSIES. Brown October was dramngto a close — the breeze bad ac- quired a degree of sharpness too strong to be merely termed bracing — and the fire, as the saying is, was becoming the best flower in the garden — for the hardiest and the latest plants had either shed their leaves, or their flowers had shri- velled at the breath of approaching winter — when a stranger drew his seat towards the parlour fire of the Three-Ilalf- Jloons inn, in Rothbury. He had sat for the space of half an hour when a party entered, who, like himself, (as appeared from their conversation,) were strangers, or rather visiters of the scenery, curiosities, and antiijuitlcs in the vicinity. One of them having ordered the waiter to bring each of them a glass of orandy and warm water, without appearing to notice the presence of the first mentioned stranger, after a few remarks on the objects of interest in the neighbour- hood, the following conversation took place amongst them : — " Why," said one, " but even Rothbury here, secluded as it is from the world, and shut out from the daily intercourse of men, is a noted place. It was here that the ancient and famous northern bard, and unrivalled ballad writer, Bernard Uumney, was born, bred, and died. Here, too, was born Or Brown, who, like Young and Home, united the characters of divine and dramatist, and was the author of ' Barbarossa,' ' The Cure of Saul,' and other works of which posterity dnd his country are proud. The immediate neighbourhood, also, was the biith-place of the inspired boy, the heaven- taught mathematician, George Coughran, who knew no rival, and who bade fair to eclipse the glory of Newton, but whom death struck down ere he had reached the years of manhood." " Why, I can't tell," said another; " I don't know much about what you've been talking of — butlknow, for one thing, that Rothbury was a famous place for every sort of games; iind, at Fastren's E'en times, the rule was, every male inha- bitant above eight years of age to pay a shilling, or out to the foot-ball. It was noted for its game-cocks, too — they Were the best breed on Uie Borders." " May oe so," said the first speaker; " but though I should be loatn to see the foot-ball, or an_v other innocent game which keeps up a manl}' spirit, put down, 3-et I do trust that the brutal practice of cock-fighting will be abolished, not only on the Borders, but throughout every country which professes the name of Christian ; and I rejoice that the practice is falling into disrepute. But, although my hairs are not yet honoured with the silver tints of age, I am old enough to remember, that, when a boy at school on the Scot- tish side of the Border, at every Fastren's E'en which you have spoken of, every schoolboy was espcctcd to provide a cock for the battle, or main, and the teacher or his deputy presided as umpire. The same practice prevailed on the Bouthem Border. It is a very old, savage amusement, even in this country ; and perhaps the preceptors of youth, in former days, considered it classical, and that it would instil into their pupils sentiments of emulation ; inasmuch as the 21. Vol. 1 practice is said to have taken rise from Thcmistoclus per- ceiving two cocks tearing at and fighting with each other, while marching his army against the Persians, when he called upon his soldiers to observe tliera, and remarked that they neither fought for territory, defence of country, nor for glory, but they fought because the one would not yield to or be defeated by the other ; and he desired his soldiers to take a moral lesson fi"om the barn-door fowls. Cock-fight- ing thus became among the heathen Greeks a political pre- cept and a religious observance — and the Christian inhabi- tants of Britain, disregarding the religious and political moral, kept up the practice, adding to it more disgusting barbarity, for ^/tcir amusement." " Coom," said a third, who, from his tongue, appeared to be a thorough Northumbrian, " we wur talking aboot Rothbury, but you are goin' to give us a regular sarmin on cock-fighting. Let's hae none o' that. You was saying what clever chaps had been born here — but none o' ye men tioned Jamie Allan, the gipsy and Northumberland piper, who was horn here .as weel as the best o' them. But I hae heard that Rothbury, as weel as Yetholm and Tweedmouth Sloor, was a great resort for the Faa or gipsy gangs, in former times. Now, I understand th.it thae folk were a sort o' bastard Egyptians ; and though I am nae scholar. It strikes me forcibly, that the meaning o' the word, gipsies, is just Egr/pts, or Gyptie) — a contraction and corruption o' 'Gyptian!" " Gipsies," said he who spoke of Rumney and Drown, and abused the practice of cock-fighting, " still do in some degree, and formerly did in great numbers, infest this county; and I will tell you a story concerning them." " Do so," said the thorough Northumbrian ; " I like a story when it's weel put thegither. The gipsies were queer folk. I've heard my faither tell many a funny thing about them, when he used to whistle ' Felton Loanin,' which was made by awd piper Allan — Jamie's faither." And here the speaker struck up a lively air, which, to the stranger by the fire, seemed a sort of pai-ody on the well-known tune of " Johnny Cope." The other then proceeded with his tale, thus — You have all heard of the celebrated Johnny Faa, the Lord and Earl of Little Egypt, who penetrated into Scotland in the reign of James IV., and with whom that gallant monarch was glad to conclude a treaty. Johnny was not only the king, but the first of the Faa gang of whom we have mention. I am not aware that gipsies get the name of Faaa anywhere but upon the Borders; and, though it is ditEcult to account for the name satisfiictorily, it is said to have had its origin from a family of the name of Fall or Fa', who resided here, (in Rothbury,) and that their superiority in their cun- ning and desperate profession, gave the same cognomen to all and sundry who followed the same mode of life upon tha Borders. One thing is certain — that the name faa not only was given to individuals whose surname might be Fa//, but to the IVinters and Clarkes-^id genus om/;e— gipsy families well known on the Borders. Since waste lands, which were their biding places and resorts, ben;an to be cultivated, and especially since the sun of knowledge snuffed out the tapcx 1U2 TALES OF THE BOEDERS. of supcrstitior. and credulity, icost of thorn are beginiiing to lurni a part of society, to learn trades of industry, and live with men. Tlioge who still prefer thtir fathers' vagabond mode of life — finding that, in the northern counties, their old trade of fortunc-tellrng is at a discount, and that thieving has thinned their tribe and is dangerous — now follow the more useful and respectable callings of muggers, besom-makers, and tinkers. I do not Itnow whether, in etiquette, I ought to give precedence to the besom-maker or tinker; though, as compared with them, I should certainly suppose that the " muggers" of the present day belong to the Faa aristocracy ; if it be not that they, like others, derive their nobilitj-from descent of blood rather than weight of pocket — and that, after all, the mugger with lus encampment, his caravans, horses, crystal, and crockery, is but a mere wealthy plebeian or boitrgeioiis in the vagrant community. — But to my tale. On a dark and tempestuous night in the December of 162S, a Faa gang requested shelter in the out -houses of the laird of Clennel. The laird himself had retired to rest ; and Jiis domestics being fewer in number than the Faas, they feared to refuse them their request. " Ye shall have up-putting for the night, good neighbours," said Andrew Smith, who was a sort of major-domo in the laird's household, and he spoke in a tone of mingled autho- rity and terror. " But, sir," added he, addressing the chief of the tribe — " I will trust to your honour that ye will allow none o' your folk to be making free with the kye, or the sheep, or the poultry — that is, that ye will not allow them lO mistake ony o' them for your owm, lest it bring me into trouble. For the laird has been in a fearful rage at some o' your people lately ; and if onything were to be amissing in the morning, or he kenned that ye had been here, it might be as meikle as my life is worth." " Tush, man !" said Willie Faa, the king of the tribe, ' ye dree the death ye'U never die. Willie Faa and his folk maun live as weel as the laird o' Clennel. But, there's my thumb, not a four-footed thing, nor the feather o' a bird, shall be touched by me or mine. But I see the light is out in the laird's chamber window — he is asleep and high up amang the turrets — and wherefore should ye set human bodies in byres and stables in a night like this, when j'our Ha' fire is bleezing bonnily, and there is room eneugh around it for us a' ? Gie us a seat by the cheek o' your hearth, and ye shall be nae loser ; and I promise ye that we shall be off, bag and baggage, before the skreigh o' day, or the laird kens where his head lies." Anilrew would fain have refused this request, but he knew tiiat it amounted to a command; and, moreover, while he had been speaking with the chief of the tribe, the maid-ser- v;mts of the householil, who had foUowcd him and the other men-servants to the door, had divers of them been solicited by the females of the gang to have futurity revealed to them. And whether it indeed be that curiosity is more powerful in woman than in man, (as it is generally SMd to be,) I do not profess to determine; but certain it is, that the laird of Clen- nel's maid-servants, immediately on the hint being given by the gipsies, felt a very ardent desire to have a page or two from the sybilline leaves read to them — at least that part of them which related to their future husbands, and the time when they should obtain them. Therefore, they backed the petition or command of King Willie, and said to Andrew — " lieally, IMr Smith, it would be very unchristian-like to put poor wandering folli into cauld out-houses on a night like this ; and, as AV'^ilUe saj-s, there is room enough in the lla'." " That may be a' very true, lasses," returned Andrew, " but oidy ye think what a dirdum there would be if the laird were to waken or get wit o't \" " Fearna the laird," said Elspeth, the wife of King Willie " I will lay a spell on him that he c^anna be roused frae Bleep, till I, at sunrise, wash my hands in Danlen Lough." Tlie svbil tbiu raised her arms and waved them fantastic cully in the air, uttering, as sTie waved them, the following uncouth rhymes, by way of incan'ation — '■ Bonny Queen JI;ib, Ijonny Queen Mab, Wave ye yoxir wee bite o' popjjy wingc, OuTe Clenncra laird, that lie may sleep Till I liac washed where Darden springs,** Thus assured, Andrew yielded to his fears and the wishes of his fellow-servants, and ushered the Faas into his master's hall for the night. But scarce had they taken their seats upon the oaken forms around the fire, when — " Come," said the Faa king, " the night is cold — pinch- ing cold, Mr Smith ; and, while the fire warms without, is there naething in the cellar that will warm within ? See to it, Andrew, man — thou art no churl, or thj face ia fausc." "Really, sir," replied Andrew — and, inspiteof allhisefiTorts to appear at ease, his tongue faltered as he spoke — " I'm not altogether certain what to say upon tliat subject ; for ye observe that our laird is reallya very singular man ; ye might as weel put your head in the fire there as displease him in the smallest ; and though Heaven kens that I would gie to you just as freely as I would tak to mysel, yet ye'll observe that the liquor in the cellars is not mine but his — and they are never sae weel plenished but I believe he would miss a thimble-fu'. But there is some excellent cold beef in the pantry, if ye could put up wi' the like o' it, and the home- brewed which we servants use." "Andrew," returned the Faa king, proudly — " castle have I none, flocks and herds have I none, neither have I haughs where the wheat, and the oats, and the barley grow — but, like Ishmael, my great forefather, every man's hand is against me, and mine against them— yet, when I am hungry, I never lack the flesh-pots o' my native land, where the moorfowl and the venison make brown broo together. Cauld meat agrees nae wi' my stomach, and servants' drink was never brewed for the lord o' Little Egypt. Ye comprehend me, Andrew .''" " Oh, I daresay I do, sir," said the chief domestic of the house of Clennel — " but only, as I have said, ye will recollect that the drink is not mine to give ; and if I venture upon a jug, I hope ye winna think o' asking for another." " We shall try it," said the royal vagrant. Andrew, with trembling and reluctance, proceeded to the cellar, and returned with a large earthen vessel filled with the choicest home-brewed, which he placed upon a table in the midst of them. " Then rach took a smack Of the old black-jack. While the fire burned in the liall. The Fixa king pronounced the liquor to be palatable, and drank to his better acquaintance with the cellars of tJie hard of Clennel ; and his gang followed his example. Now, I should remark, that Willie Faa, the chief of hi? tribe, was a man of gigantic stature ; the colotir of his skin was the dingy bro\^Ti peculiar to his race ; his arms wqre of remarkable length, and his limbs a union of strength and lightness ; his raven hair was mingled with grey ; while in his d;irk eyes, the impetuosity of youth and the cunning of age seemed blended together. It is in vain to spe;\k of his dr-ess, for it was changed daily as liis circumstances or avo- cations directed. Ilewas ever ready to assume all characters, from the courtier down to the mendicant. Like his wife, he was skilled in the reading of no book but the book of ■ fate. Now, Elspeth was a less agreeable personage to look upon than even her husband. The hue of her skin was as dark as his. Sire was also of his age — a woman of full fifty. She was the tallest female in her tribe ; but her stoutness I took away from her stature. Her eyes were small and I piercing, her nose aquiline, and her upper lip was " bearded like the pard." WhiJi; her husband sat at his carousals, and li.Tjiding the I TALES OF THE BORDERS. 163 dCTCrage to Iiis fDllowors nnj tlie domestics of tlie lioiisp, P21sjK'tli snt exiiininin<; the liia's upmi tin,' piilms of the hiuiils of the in;ud-sorv;uit8 — pursuing her cnlliiij; as ii spaewife. And ever as she traced the lines of niatriiuoiiy, the Kyhil would pause and exclaim — "Ha! — money! — moiiev ! — cross my loot again, liinnj Tliere is fortune hetoreye! Let mesee! A spur! — n sword! — a shield ! — a j^mvden purse ! Heaven bless ye ! They are there! — tliere, as plain as a pike-staff; they are a' in your path. Hut cross my loof again, liinny, for until siller again cross it, I canna see whether they are to he yours or no." Thus did Els]ieth go on until her " loof had been crns.sed" by the last coin amongst the domestics of the house of Clen- nel; and when these were exhausted, their trinkets were de- manded and given to assist the spell of the prophetess. Good fortune was prognosticated to the most of them, and espe- cially to those who crossed the loof of the reader of futurity most freely ; but to others, perils, and sudden deaths, and disappointments in love, and grief iu wedlock, were hinted ; though to all and each of these forebodings, a .something like liope — an undefined way of escape — was pended. Now, as the voice of Elspeth rose in solemn tones, and as the mystery of Iht manner increased, not only were the maid-servants stricken with awe and reverence for the won- drous woman, but the men-servants also began to inquire into their fate. And, as they extended their hands, and Elspeth traced the lines of the past upon them, ever and anon she spoke strange words, which intimated secret facts ; and she spoke also of love-makings and likings ; and ever, as site spoke, she would raise her head and grin a ghastly smile, now at the individu.al whose hand she was examining, and again at a maid-.servant whose fortune she had read ; while the former would smile and the latter Llush, and their fel- low domestics exclaim — " That's wonderfu' ! — tha'^ dings a' . — ye are queer folk ! — !ioo in the world do ye ken ?" Even the curiosity of Mr Andrew Smith was raised, and his wonder excited ; and, after he had quaffed his third cup with the gipsy king, he, too, reverentially approached the liearded princess, extending his hand, and begging to know what futurity had in store for him. She rai.sed it before her eyes, she rubbed hers over it. " It is a dark and a difficult hand," muttered slie : "here are ships and the sea, and crossing the sea, and great danger, and a way to avoid it — but the gowd ! — the gowd that's there ! And yet ye may lose it a' ! Cross my loof, sir — yours is an ill hand to spae — for it's set wi' fortune, and danger, and adventure." Andrew gave her all the money in his possession. Now, it was understood that she was to return the money and the trinkets with wh.ich her loof had been crossed; and Andrew's curiosity overcoming his fear.s, he ventured to entrust his property in her keeping — for, as he thought, it was not every day that people coidd have everything that was to happen unto them revealed. But when she had again looked upon his hand — " It winna do," said she — " I canna see owre the danger ye liae to encounter, the seas ye hae to cross, and the moun- tains o' gowd that lie before ye yet — ye maun cross my loof again." And when, with a woful countenance, he Stated that he had crossed it with his last coin — " Ye hae a cl.ronometer, man," said she — " it tells you the n;inutes now, it may enable me to shew ye those that are to come!" Andrew .icsitatcd, and, with doubt and uo-villingness, placed the chronometer in her hand. Elspeth wore a short cloak of faded crimson ; and in a sort of pouch in it, every coin, trinket, and other article of value which was put into her hands, were deposited, in order, as Sbe stated, to forwardhcr mystic operations. Now, the chrn- noniftrr had just disappeared in the general receptacle of nfTerinps to the or.icle, wlion I'oavy foofsfeps were heard descending the staircase leading (o llie hnll. Poor Andrew, the ruler of the household, gasped — the blood forsook his cheeks, his knees involuntarily knocked one against another, and he stammered out — " For Heeven's s.ike, gic me my chronometer ! — Oh.gic me it ! — we are a ruined !" " It car.nabe returned till Uie spell's completed," rejoined Elspeth, in a solemn and dctennined tone — and her counte- nance betrayed nothing of her dupe's uneasiness ; while her husband deliberately placed his right hand upon a sort of "laggcr which he wore beneath a large coarse j.icket that was loosely (lung over her shoulders. The males in his retinue, who were eight in number, followed his example. In another moment, the laird, with wrath u]ion his coun- tenance, burst into the hall. " Andrew Smith," cried he, sternly, and stamping his foot fiercely on the floor, " what scene is this 1 sec? Answer me, ye betrayer o' trust ? — ye robber, answer mc .' — ye shall hang for it !" " O sir! sir !" groaned Andrew, " mercy! — mercy! — O sir!" and he ^vrung his hands together and shook exceedingly. " Ye fause knave!" continued the laird, grasjiing him by the neck — and dashing him from him, Andrew fell flat upon the floor, and his terror had almost shook him from his feet before — "Speak, ye fause knave !" resumed the laird ; " what moans your cnrousin wi' sic a gang .'' Ye robber, speak.!" And he kicked him with his foot as he lay upon the ground. " O sir ! — mercy, sir !" vociferated Andrew, in the stupor and wildncss of terror; " I canna speak ! — ye hae killed me outright ! I am dead — stone dead ! But it w.asna my blame — they'll a' say tliat, if they speak the truth." "Out ! out, ye thieves ! — ye gang o' plunderers, bom to the gallows ! — out o' my house !" added the laird, addressing Willie Faa and his followers. " Thieves ! ye acred loon !" exclaimed the Faa king, start- ing to his feet, and drawing himself up to his full height — " wha does the worm that burrows in the lands o' Clcnnel ca' thieves.'' Thieves, say yc ! — speak such words to your equals but no to me. Y'our forebears came oa\to wi' the Norman, invaded the nation, and seized upon land — mine invaded it also, and only laid a tax upon the flocks, the cattle, and the poultry — and wha ca' yc thieves? — or wi' what grace do ye speak the word ?" " Away, ye audacious vagrant !" continued the laird ; "ken ye not that the king's authority is in my h.ands.'' — and for your former plunderings, if I again find ye setting foot upon ground o' mine, on the nearest tree yc sh.-dl find a gibbet." " Boast awa — boast awa, man," said Willie ; "ye are safe here, for me and mine winna h.arm ye ; and it is a fougle cock indeed that darena craw in its ain barn-yard. But w.-iit until the d.ay wlion we may meet upon the wide moor, wi' only twa bits o' steel between us, and see wha shall brag then." " Aw.ay ! — Instantly away !" exchilmed Clcnnel, drawing his sword, and waving it threateningly over the head of the gipsy. " Proud, cauld-hearted, and unfeeling mortal," said El- speth, " will ye turn fellow-beings frae beneath your roof in a night like this, when the fox darna creep frae its hole, and the raven trembles on the tree ?" " Out ! out ! ye witch !" rejoined the laird. " Fareweel, Clcnnel," said the Faa king ; " we will leave your roof, and seek the shelter o' the hill-side. But yc shall rue ! As I speak, man, ye shall rue it !" "Rue it !" screamed Elspeth, rising — and her small dark eyes flashed with indignation — " ho shall rue it — the bairn unborn shall rue it — and the bann o' Elspeth Faa shall be on Clcnnel and his kin, until his hearth be desolate, and hlsspirit howl within him like the tempest which this night rF.gb6 In the heavens !" 'Ihe servants shrank together into a comer of the hall, to 164 TALES OF THE BOKDEES. avoid the rage of their master ; and tiicy shook tlie more at tho threatening words of the weird woman, lest she shoukl involve them in his doom ; but he laughed with scorn at her words. " I'roud, pitiless fool/' resumed Elspeih, more bitterly tlian before, " repress your scorn. Whom, think ye, ye treat wi' contempt .'' Ken ye not that the humble adder which ye tread upon can destroy ye — that the very wasp can sting ye, and there is poison in its sting ! Yc laugh, but for your want o' humanity this night, sorrow shall turn your head grey, lang before age sit down upon your brow." " Off! off! ye wretches !" added the laird ; " vent your threats on the wind, if it will hear ye, for I regard them as little as it will. But keep out o' my way for the future, as ye would escape the honours o' a hempen cravat, and the hereditary exaltation o' your race." Willie Faa made a sign to his followers, and without speaking they instantly rose and departed; but, as he himself reached the door, he turned round, and significantly striking the hilt of his dagger, exclaimed — " Clennel ! ye shall rue it I" And the hoarse voice of Elspeth without, as the sound was borne away on the storm, was heard crying — " He shall rue it !" and repeating her improoations. Until now, poor Andrew Smith had lain groaning upon the floor more dead than alive, though not exactly " stone dead" as he expressed it ; and ever, as he heard his master's angry voice, he groaned the more, until in his agony he doubted his existence. When, therefore, on the departure of the Faas, the laird dragged him to his feet, and feeling some pity for his terror, spoke to him more mildly, Andrew gazed vacantly around him, his teeth chattering together, and he first placed his hands upon his sides, to feci whether he was still indeed the identical flesh, blood, and bones, of Andrew Smith, or his disembodied spirit ; and being assured that he was still a man, he put down his hand to feel for his chro- nometer, and again he groaned bitterly — and although he now knew he was not dead, he almost wished he were so. The other servants thought also of their money and their trinkets, which, as well as poor Andrew's chronometer, Elspeth, in the hurry in which she was rudely driven from the house, had, by a slip of memory, neglected to return to their lawful owners. It is unnecessary to dwell upon the laird's anger at his domestics, or farther to describe Andrew's agitation ; but I may say that the laird was not wroth against the Faa gang without reason. They had committed rav.iges on hisflocks — they had carried off the choicest of his oxen — they destroyed his deer — they plundered him of his poultry — and they even made free with the grain that he reared, and which he could spare least of all. I3ut Willie Faa considered every landed proprietor as his enemy, and thought it his duty to quarter on them. Moreover, it was his boisterous laugh, as he pushed round the tankard, which aroused the laird from his slumbers, and broke Elspeth's spell. And the destruc- tion of the charm, by the appearance of their master, before she had washed her hands in Darden Lough, caused those who had parted with their money and trinkets, to grieve for them the more, and to doubt the promises of the prophetess, or to " Take all for gospel that the epae-folk say." JIany weeks, however, had not passed, until the laird of Clennel found that Elspeth the gipsy's threat, that he should " rue it," meant more than idle words. His cattle sickened and died in their stalls, or the choicest of them disappeared ; his favourite horses were found maimed in the mornings, woimdcd and bleeding in the fields; and, notwilhstandingthe vigilance of his shepherds, the depredations on his flocks augmented tenfold He doubted not but that Willie Faa and his tribe were the authors of all the evils which were besetting him : but he knew also tJ*eir oower and their matchless craft, which rendered it almost impossible eithei to detect or punish them. He had a favourite steed, which had borne him in boyhood, and in battle when he served in foreign wars ; and one morning when he went into his park, he found it lying bleeding upon the ground. Grief and indignation strove together in arousing revenge within his bosom. He ordered his sluthhound to be brought, and his dependants to be summoned together, and to bring arms with them. He had previously observed footprints on the ground, and he exclaimed — " Now, the fiend take the Faas, they shall find whose turn it is to rue before the sun gae down." The gong was pealed on the turrets of Clennel Hall, and the kempers with their poles bounded in every direction, with the fleetness of mountain stags, to summon all capable of bearing arms to the presence of the laird. The mandate was readily obeyed; and within two hours thirty armed men appeared in the park. The sluthhound was led to the foot- print ; and after following it for many a weary mile over moss, moor, and mountain, it stood and howled, and lashed its lips with its tongue, and again ran as though its prey were at hand, as it approached what might be called a gap in the wilderness between Keyhcugh and Clovencrag. Now, in the space between these desolate crags, stood some score of peels, or rather half hovels, half encampments — ■ and this primitive city in the wilderness was the capital of the Faa king's people. " Now for vengeance!" exclaimed Clennel; and his desire of revenge was excited the more from perceiving several of the choicest of his cattle, which had disappeared, grazing before the doors or holes of the gipsy village. " Bring whins and heather," he continued — " pile them around it, and burn the den of thieves to the ground." His order was speedily obeyed, and when he commanded the trumpet to be sounded, that the inmates might defend themselves if they dared, only two or three men and women of extreme age, and some half-dozen children, crawled upon their hands and knees from the huts, (for it was impossiblu to stand upright in them.) The aged men and women howled when they bclield the work of destruction that was in preparation, and the chil- dren screamed when they heard them howl. But the Laird of Clennel had been injured, and he turned a deaf ear to their misery. A light was struck, and a dozen torches applied at once. The whins crackled, the heather blazed, and the flames overtopped the hovels which they surrounded, j and which within an hour became a heap of smouldering I ashes. Clennel and his dependants returned home, driving the cattle which had been stolen from him before them, and rejoicing in what they had done. On the following day, Willie Faa and a part of his tribe returned to the place of rendezvous — their city and home in the mountains — and they found it a heap of smoking ruins, and the old men and the old women of the tribe — their fathers and their mothers — sitting wailing upon the ruins, and warming over them their shivering limbs, while the children wept around them for food. " Whose work is this.''" inquired Willie, while anxietj and anger flashed in his eves. " The Laird o' Clennel! — the Laird o' Clennel!" answered every voice at the same instant. " By thisIswear!"exclainiedthekingoftheFaas, drawing his dagger from beneath his coat, '" from this night hence- forth he is laird nor man nae langer !" And he turned hastily from the ruins as if to jnit his threat in execution. " Stay, ye madcap !" cried Elspeth, following him, , " would ye fling away revenge for half a minute's satis- faction ?" " No, wife," cried he, " nae niair vlian I would sacrifice ! livinc a free and a fu' life for half an hour's hangin." TALES OF TUE BOKDElig. IW " Stcip, tlion," relurnoJ slie, " niul let our voiificancL' fa upon liim, so that it may wriiijT liis life away, drap liy draj), until his heart he dry ; and j;;rief, sliame, and sorrow hum him up, as ho has here luirned house and Iiome o' KIspeth Faa r.nd her kindred." " ^V'llat mean ve, woman?" said Willie, hastily; " if I thought ye would come hetweeu me and my revenge, I would drive this bit steel tlinnigli you wi as good will as 1 sliall drive it through " And \L' shall he welcome," said Elspeth. She drew liim aside, and whispered a few minutes in his ear. He listened attentively. At times he seemed to start, and at length, sheathing his dagger and grasping her hand, he eK- claimed — '• Excellent, Elspeth t — ye have it! — ye have it I" At this period, the laird of Clennel was ahout thirty years of age, and two years hefore he had been married to Eleanor lie Vere, a lady alike distinguished for her beauty and accomplishments. They had an infant son, who was the delight of his mother, and his father's jiride. Now, for two years after the conflagration of their little town, Clennel heard nothing of his old enemies the Faas, neither did they molest him, nor had they been seen in the neighljourhood, and he rejoiced in having cleared his estate of such danger- tms visiters. But tlie Faa king, listening to the advice of liis wife, only " nur>ed his wrath to keep it warm," and retired from the neighbourhood, that he might accomplish, in its [iroper season, his design of vengeance more effectually, and with greater cruelty. The infant heir of the house of Clennel had been named Henry, and he was ahout completing his third year — an age at which children are, perhaps, most interesting, and when their fondling and their prattling sink deepest into a parent's heart — for all is then beheld on childhood's sunny side, and all is innocence and love. Now, it was in a lovely day in April, when every bird had begun its annual song, and •lowers were bursting into beauty, buds into leaves, and the earth resuming its green mantle, when Lady Clennel and her infant son, who then, as I have said, was ahout three years of age, went forth to enjoy the loveliness and the luxuries of nature, in the woods which surrounded their mansion, and Andrew Smith accompanied them as their guide and pro- tector. They had proceeded somewhat more than a mile from the house, and the child, at intervals breaking away from them, sometimes ran hefore his mother, and at others sauntered behind her, pulling the wild flowers that strewed their path, when a man, springing from a dark thicket, seized the child in his arms, and again darted into the wood. Lady Clennel screamed aloud, and rushed after him. Andrew, who was coming dreaming behind, got but a glance of iho ruHiau stranger — but that glance was enough to reveal to him the tall, terrible figure of Willie Eaa, the gipsy king. There are moments when, and circumstances under which even cowards become courageous, and this was one of those moments and circumstances which suddenly inspired Andrew (who was naturally no liero) with courage. He, indeed, loved the child as though he had been his own ; and, fi^low- ing the example of Lady Clennel, he drew his sword and rushed into the wood. He possessed considerable speed of foot, and he soon passed the wretched mother, and came in sight of the pursued. The unhappy lady, who ran panting and screaming as she rushed along, unable to keep pace with them, lost all trace of where the robber of her child had lied, and her cries of agony and bereavement rang through the woods. Andrew, however, though he did not gain ground upon the gipsy, still kept within sight of him, and shouted to him IS he ran, saying that all the dependants of Clennel would; soon be on horseback at his heels, and trusting that every |i moment he would drop the child upon the ground. Still J Kaa flew forn-ard bearing the hoy in his i*"d disre- 1, garding the cries and threats of his pursuer. He knew that Andrew's was not what could be called a heart (if steel but he was aware that he had a powerful arm, and could use a sword as well as a better man ; and he knew al.so that cowards will fight as desperately, when their life is at stake, as the brave. The desperate chase continued for four hours, ami till after the sun had .set, and the gloaming was falling thick on tlie hills. Andrew, being younger and unencumbered, had at length gained ground upon the f.jip'^v, and was within ten yards of him when he reached the Cccting him, which is by crossing Elspetb's loof, that she may betray her husband ; and she would do it for revenge's sake, for an ill husband has he been to her, and I'a her old daj's he has discarded her for another." " And where may she be foiuid .''" inquired Clennel, ear- nestly. "That," added Susan, "^ is a question I cannot answer. She was with the people in the glen to day, and was first to raise the laugh when your dog fastened its teeth in the flesh of your ain baim. But she may be far to seek and ill to find now — for she is wi' those that travel fast and far, and that will not see her hindmost." Deep was the disappointment of the laird when he found he could obtain no tidings of his son. But, at the interces- sion of bis daughter, (whose untutored mind her fond mother bad bcgini to instruct,) Susan was freely pardoiicd, promised protection from her tribe, and again admitted as one of the household. I might describe the anxious care of the fond mother, as, day by day, she sat by her new-found and lovely daughter's side, teaching her, and telling her of a hundred things of which she bad never heard before, while her father sat gazing and listening near them, rejoicing over both. But the ray of sunshine which bad penetrated the house of Clennel, was not destined to be of long duration. At that period, a fearful cloud overhung the whole land, and the fury of civil war- seemed about to buist forth. The threatening storm did explode ; a bigoted king over- stepped his prerogative, set at naught the rights and the liberties of the subject, and an indignant people stained their hands with blood. A political convulsion shook the empire to its centre. Families and individuals became involved in the general catastrophe ; and the house of Clennel did not escape. In common with the majority of the English gentry of that period, Clennel was a stanch loyalist, and if not exactly a lover of the king, or an ardent admirer of bis acts, yet one who would fight for the crown though it should (as it was expressed about the time) " hang by a bush." ^Vhen, therefore, the parliament declared war against the king, and the name of Cromwell spread awe throughout the country, and when some said that a prophet and deliverer had risen amongst them, and others an ambitious h}-pocrite and a tyrant, Clcnuel armed a body of his dependants, and hastened to the assistance of the sovereign, leaving his wife and his Qcwly-found daughter with the promise of a speedy return. It is unnecessary to describe all that he did or encountered luring the civil wars. He had been a zealous partizan of the first Charles, and he fought for the fortunes of his son lo the last. He was present at the battle of Worcester, v/hich Cromwell calls bis "crowning mercy," in the Sep- tember of 1051, whore the alrcadv dispirited royalists were finally routed ; and he fought by the side of the king until the afreets were heaped with dead ; and when Charks fled, ho, with others, accompanied him to the Borders of Staflford- shire. Having bid the young prince an afTectionate farewell, Cloiniel turned back, with the intention of prorrcdincj on his jouniey, on the following daj', to Norlbumljcrland, though be was aware that, from the part which be had taken in the royal cau^c, even bis ])erson was in danger. Yet tl e di sire ai,ain to lehold his wife and daughter, ovcrc.-ime Lis fears, and the thought of meeting them in some degn e consoled him for the fate of bis prince, and the result of the Btru^'gle ia xvbieli he bad been engaged. But be had not proceeded far, when he was met by two men dressed as soldiers of the Parliamentary army — the one a veteran with grey hairs, and the other a youlh. The shades of night had set in ; but the latter he instantly recog- nised as a young soldier whom ho had that day wounded in the streets of Worcester. " Stand !" said the old man, as they met hira ; and the younger drew his sword. " If I stand I" exclaimed Clennel, " it shall not be when an old man and a boy command mo." And, following their example, he unsheathed his sword. " Boy !" exclaimed the youth ; " whom call ye boy .'' — think ye, because ye wounded me this morn, that fortune shall aye sit on your arm .'' — yield or try." They made several thrusts at each other, and the old man, as an indillerent spectator, stood looking on. But the youth, by a dexterous blow, shivered the sword in Clennel's hand, and left him at his mercy. " Now yield ye," he exclaimed ; " the chance is mine now — in the morning it was thine." " Ye seem a fair foe," replied Clennel, " and loath am I to yield, but that I am weaponless." " Despatch him at once !" growled the old man. " If he spilled your blood in the morning, there can be nae harm in spilling his the night — and especially after giein' him a fair chance." " Father," returned the youth, " would ye have me to kill a man in cold blood .''" " Let him submit to be bound then, hands and eyes, or 1 will," cried the senior. The younger obeyed, and Clennel, finding himself dis- armed, submitted to his fate ; and his hands were bound, and his eyes tied up, so that he know not where they led him. After wandering many miles^ and having lain upon what appeared the cold earth for a lodging, he was aroused from a comfortless and troubled sleep, by a person tearing the bandage from his eyes, and ordering him to prepare for his trial. lie started to his feet. He looked around, and be- held that he stood in the midst of a gipsy encampment. He was not a man given to fear, but a sickness came over his heart when he thought of his wife and daughter, and that, knowing the character of the people in whose po\ver he was, he should never behold them again. The males of the Faa tribe began to assemble in a sort of half circle in the area of the encampment, and in the midst of them, towering over the heads of all, he immediately dis- tinguished the tall figure of Willie Faa, in whom he also discovered the grey-haired Parliamentary soldier of the pre- vious night, iint the youth with whom he had twice con- tended and once wounded, and by whom he had been made prisoner, he was unable to single out amongst them. He was rudely dragged before them, and \Villie F;ia cried — '* Ken ye the culprit ?" " Clennel o' Northumberland I — our enemy !" exclaimed twenty voices. " Yes," continued Willie, " Clennel our enemy — the burner o' our humble habitations — that left the auld, the sick, the infinn, and the hel]>less, and the infants o' oui kio'Iredj to perish in the flamuitr rmns. H;kI we burned lis 168 TALES OF THE BORDERS. house, the punishment would have hcen death ; and sbail we do less to liim than he would do to us ?" " No ! no !" they exclaimed with one voice. " But," added Willie, " though he would have disgraced us ■\vi' a gallows, as he has been a soldier, I projjosc that he hae the honour o' a soldier's death, and that Harry Faa be appointed to shoot him." " All ! all ! all !" was the cry. " He shall die with the setting sun," said Willie, and again they cried, " Agreed!" Such was the form of trial which Clennel underwent, when he was again rudely dragged away, and placed in a tent round which four strong Faas kept guard, lie had not been alone an hour, when his judge, the Faa king, entered, and addressed him — " Now, Laird Clennel, say ye that 1 haena lived to sec day about ivi' ye. When ye turned me frae beneath your roof, when the drift was fierce and the wind howled in the moors, was it not tauld to ye that ye mould rue it ! — but ye mocked the admonition and the threat, and, after that, cruelly burned us out o' house and ha'. When I came iiame, I saw my auld mother, that was within three years o' a hunder, couring owre the recking ruins, without a wa' to shelter her, and crooning curses on the doer o' the black deed. There were my youngest bai' us, too, crouching by their granny's side, star- ving wi' hunger as wcel as vA' cauld, for ye had burned a', and haudin' their hits o' hands before the hurnin' ruins o' the house that they were bom in, to warm them ! That night I vowed vengeance on you ; and even on that night I would liave executed it, but I was prevented ; and glad am I now that I was prevented, for my vengeance has been complete • — or a' but complete. Wi' my ain hand I snatched your son and heir from his mother's side, and a terrible chase I had for it ; but revenge lent me baith strength and speed. And when ye had anither bairn that was like to live, 1 forced a lassie, that some o' our folk had stolen when an infant, to bring it to us. Ye have got your daughter back again, but no before she has cost ye mony a sad heart and mony a saut tear ; and that was some revenge. But the substance o' my satisfaction and revenge lies in what I hae to tell ye. Ye die this night as the sun gaes down ; and, hearken to me now — the young soldier whom ye wounded on the streets o' Worcester, and who last night made you risoner, was your son — j'our heir — j'our lost son ! Ila ! la ! — Clennel, am I revenged ?" " My son !" screamed the prisoner — " monster, what is it that ye say } Strike me dead, now I am in your power — but torment me not !" " Ha ! ha ! ha !" again laughed the grey-haired savage — " man, ye are about to die, and ye know not ye are born. Ye have not heard half I have to tell. I heard that ye had joined the standard of King Charles. I, a king in my own right, care for neither your king nor parliament ; but I resolved to wear, for a time, the cloth of old Noli, and of making your son do the same, that I might have an oppor- tunity of meeting you as an enemy, and seeing him strike you to the heart. That satisfaction I had not ; but I had its equivalent. Yesterday, I saw you shed his blood on the streets of Worcester, and in the evening he gave you a pri- soner into ray hands, that desired you." " Grey-haired monster !" exclaimed Clennel, " have ye no feeling — no heart } Speak ye to torment me, or teU me truly have I seen my son?" " Patience, man !" said the Faa, with a smile of Sardonic Iriumph — " my story is but half finished. It was the blood of your son ye shed yesterday at Worcester — it was your Bon who disarmed ye and gave ye into my power ; and, best of all ! — now, hear me ! hear me ! lose not a word ! — it is the hand of your son that this night, at sunset, shall send you to eternity ! Now, tell me, Clennel, am I not revenged r Do ye not rue it }" I " Wretch ? wretch !" cried the miserable parent, " m mercy strike me dead. If I have raised my sword against my son, let that suffice ye ! — but spare, oh, spare iny child from being an involuntary parricide !" " Hush, fool !" said the Faa ; " I have waited for this consummation of my revenge for twenty years, and think 3'e that I will be deprived of it now by a few whining words } Remember sunset !" he added, and left the tent. Evening came, and the disk of the sun began to disappear behind the western hills. Men and women, the old and tli3 young, amongst the Faas, came out from their encampment to behold the death of their enemy. Clennel was brought forth between two, his hands fastened to his sides, and a bandage round his mouth, to prevent him making himsel known to his executioner. A rope was also brought round liis body, and he was tied to the trunk of an old ash tree. The women of the tribe began a sort of yell or coronach; and their king, stepping forward, and smiling savagely in the face of his victim, cried aloud — " Harry Faa ! stand forth and perform the duty your tribe have imposed on you." A young man reluctantly, and with a slew and trembling step, issued from one of the tents. He carried a musket in his hand, and placed himself in front of the prsoner, at about twenty yards from him. " JIake ready !" cried Willie Faa, in a voice like thunder. And the youth, though his bands shook, levelled the musket at his victim. But, at that moment, one who, to appearance, seemed .' maniac, sprang from a clump of whins behind the ash trc. where the prisoner was bound, and, throwing herself befor<; him, she cried — " Hold ! — would you murder your own father ! Harry Clennel ! — would ye murder yoirr father ! — Mind ye not when ye was stolen frae your mother's side, as ye gathered wild flowers in the wood }" It was Elspeth Faa. The musket dropped from the hands of the intended exe- cutioner — a thousand recollections, that he had often fancied dreams, rushed across his memory. He again seized the musket, he rushed forward to his father, hut, ere he reached Elspeth had cut the cords that bound him, and placed a dagger in his hand for his defence, and, with extended arms, he flew to meet him, crying — " My son ! — my son !" The old Fiui king shook with rage and disappointment, and his first impulse was to poniard his wife — but he feared to do so; for although he had injured her, and had not seen her for years, her iufluence was greater with the tribe than his. " Now, Willie," cried she, addressing him, " wha rues it now } — Fareweel for ance and a' — and the haim I brought up will find a shelter for my auld head." It were vain to tell how Clennel and his son wept on each other's neck, and how they exchanged forgiveness. But such was the influence of Elspeth, that they departed from the midst of the Faas unmolested, and she accompanied them. Imagination must picture the scene when the long lost ■ son flung himself upon the bosom of his mother, and pressed his sister's hand in his. Clennel Hall rang with the sounds of joy for many da3-s ; and, ere they were ended, Andrew Smith placed a ring upon the finger of Susan, and they became one flesh — she a respectable woman. And old Elspeth lived to the age of ninety and seven years beneath its roof. W I L S O N'S ftH&iovical, arraftftfonarg, an& Imastitatt'Ix- TALES OF THE BORDERS AND OF SCOTLAND. THE SOLITARY OF THE CAVE. On the l);uiks of the Tweed, and alxmt luilf a mile above where the Whitadder flows into it on tlie opposite side, tliere is a small and singular cave. It is evidently not an excava- tion formed by nature, but the work of man's hands. To the best of my recollection, it is about ten feet square, and in the midst of it is a pillar or column, hewn out of the solid rock, and reaching from the floor to the roof. It is an apartment cut out of the solid rock; and must have been a work of great labour. In the neiglilxjurhood, it is generally known by the name of the King's Cove, and the tradition runs, (hat it was once the hiding-place of a Scottish king. Formerlv, it was ascended from the level of the water by a Hight of steps, also hewn out of the rock; but the mouldering touch of time, the storms of winter, and the undermining action of the river, wliich continually appears to press soutli- ward, (as though nature aided in eidargiiig the iScottish boundary,) has long since swept them away, though part of them were entire witliin the memory of living men. What king used it as a iiiding- place, tradition sayeth not: but it also vihispers that it was ustd for a like purpose by the "great patriot hero," Sir William Wallace. These tilings may have been ; but certainly it never was formed to be a mere place of concealment for a king, though such is the popular belief. Immediately above the bank where it is situated, i4re the remains of a Roman cimp ; and it is more than j)robable that the cave is coeval with the camp, and may iiave been used for religious purposes — or, perchance, as a prison. But our story has reference to more modern times. Almost ninety vears have fallen as drops into the vast ocean of eter- nity, since a stnuige and solitary man took up his residence in the cave, lie appeared a melancholy being — he was sel- dom seen, and there were few with whom he would hold converse. How he lived no one could tell, nor would he permit any one to approach his singular habitation. It was generally supposed that he had been " out," as the phrase went, with Prince Charles, who, after being liuntetl as a wild beast upon the mountains, escaped to P" ranee only a few months before the appearance of the Solitary on Tweedside. 'I'liis, however, \vas merely a conjecture. The history and character of the stranger were a mystery ; and the more ignorant of the people believed him to be a wizard or wicked man. who, v.'hile he avoided all manner of intercourse with his fellow-mortals, had power over and was familiar witli the spirits of the air ; for, at that period, the idle belief in witch- craft was still general. His garments were as singular as liis habits, and a large coarse cloak or coat, of a hrq\yn colour, fastene How have ye been, ieart' And he lifted her fair hand "to his long blue ilps. Catherine was silent — she became pale, deadly pale. I believe her hand grew cold at his touch, and that she would have looked to me ; but she could not — she dared not. Something forbade it. But with Ke the spell was j broken — the chain that bound me to her father's house, that withheld me from accompanj-ing you to Edinburgh, was revealed. The uncouth stranger tore the veil from my eyes — he shewed me my first glance of love in the mirror of jealousy. My teeth grated together — my eyes flashed — drops of sweat stood upon my forehead. Jly first impulse was to dash the intruder to the ground ; but, to hide my feelings, I rose from my seat, and was about to leave the room. ' Sir, I ask 3-our pardon,' said he — ' I did not observe that ye was a stranger; but that accounts for the uncommon dry- ness o' my Katie. Yet, sir, )'e mustna think that, though she is as modest as a bit daisy peeping out frae beneath a clod to get a blink o' the sun, but that we can hae our ain J crack by our twa sels for a' that.' ^ ' Sir Peter Blakely,' said Catherine, rising with a look expressive of indignation and confusion, ' what mean ye V ' Oh, no offence. Miss Catherine — none in the world,' he J was bcginni.ng to say, when, fortunately, her father entered, ^ as I found that I had advanced a step towards the stran- ger, with I scarce know what intention ; but it was not friendly. ' Sir Peter,' said Sir William, ' allow me to introduce you to my young friend, Mr Fleming ; he is one of ut — a supporter of the good cause.' He introduced me in like manner. I bowed — trembled — bowed again. ' I am very happy to see you, Jlr Fleming,' said Sir Peter — ' very happy, indeed." And he stretched out his huge collection of fingers to shake hands with me. My eyes glared on his, and I felt them bum as I gazed on him. lie evidently quailed, and would have stepped back ; but I grasped his hand, and scarce knowing what I did, I grasped it as though a vice had held it. The blood sprang to his thin fingers, and his glazed orbs started farther from their sockets. ' Save us a' ! friend ! friend ! 3Ir Fleming ! or what do they ca' ye ?' he exclaimed in agony ; ' is that the way ye shake hands in your country? I would hae ye to mind my fingers arena made o' cauld iron.' The cold and the snow had done half the work with his fingers before, and the grasp I gave them squeezed them into torture ; and he stood shaking and rattling them in the air, applying them to his lips and again to the fire, and finally, dancing round the room, swinging his tormented hand, and exclaiming — ' Sorrow take ye ! for I dinna ken whether my fingers be off or on !' Sir William strove to assure him it was merely the effect of cold, and that I could not intend to injure him. while, with difficulty, he kept gravity at the grotesque contortions and stupendous strides of iiis intended son-in-law. Even Catherine's countenance relaxed into a languid smile, and 1, in spite of my feelings, laughed outright, while the object of our amusement at once wept and laughed to keep ns company. Vou ^nll remember that I slept in an apartment sepa- rated only by a thin partition from the breakfast parlour. In the ]);irlition which diWded my cJiamber from the parlour was a door that led to it, one half of which was of glass, and in the form of a window, and over tlip glass fell a piece ol dra]ierv. It was not the door by which I passed from or entered my sleeping room, but through the drapery I could discover (if so minded) whatever took place in the adjoining apartment. Throughout the night I had not retired to rest ; my soul was fiUed with anxious and uncsuv thoughts; and they chased TALES OF THE BOKDERS. 171 sl'pp from me. I felt how deeply, sliall I say liow madlv, I loved my Catherine ; and, in ISir Peter lUakely, I beheld ft rival who had forestalled me in soliciting lier hand; and I hated him. Jly spirit \v:is exhausted with its own bitter and conflicting feelings ; and I sat down as a man over whom agony of soul has brought a stupor, with my eyes vacantly fixed upon the curtain which screened me from the break- fast parlour. Sir Peter entered it, and the sound of his foot- steps broke my reverie. I could perceive him approach the fire, draw forward a chair, and place liis feet on each side of the grate. He took out his tobacco-box, and began to enjoy the comforts of his morning pipe in front of a ' green fire ;' shivering — for the morning was cold — and edging forward ills chair, until his knees almost came in conjunction with tiie mantelpiece. His pipe was finished, and he was prepar- ing to fill it a second time. lie struck it over his finger, to shake out the dust which remained after his last whilf ; he struck it a second time, (he had been half dreaming, like myself,) and it broke in two and fell among his feet. lie was left without a companion. He arose and began to walk across the room ; his countenance bespoke anxiety and restlessness. I heard him mutter the words — ' I will marry her ! — yea, I will ! — my sweet Catherine !' Every muttered word ho uttered was a dagger driven into my bosora. At that moment, Sir William entered the parlour. ' Sir,' said Sir Peter, after their morning salutations, ' I have been thinking it is a long way for me to come over from lioxburgh to here' — and he paused, took out his snufT-box, opened the lid, and added — ' Yes, sir, it is a long way' — he took a pinch of snufl", and continued — ' Now, Sir William, I have been thinking that it would be as well, indeed a great deal better, for 3'ou to come over to my lodge at a time like this.' Here he pau «d, and placed the snufl-box in his pocket. • I can apprcriafe your kiud intentions,' said Sir William, ' but' • There can he no bnts about it,' returned the other — ' I perceive ye dinna understand me, Sir William. What I mean is this' — but here he seemed at a loss to exphiin his meaning; and, after standing with a look of confusion for a few moments, he took out his tobacco-box, and added — ' I wotJd thank you, sir, to order me a pipe.' The pipe was brought — he put it in the fire, and added — ' I have been thinking, Sir William, very seriously have I been thinking, on a change of life. I am no great bairn in the world now ; and, I am sure, sir, none knows better than you, (who for ten years was my guardian,) that I never had such a degree of thoughtlessness about me as to render it possible to suppose that I would malve a bad husband to any woman that was disposed to be happy.' Once more he became silent, and taking his pijie from the fire, after a few thoughtful whifJs, he resumed — ' Servants will have their own way without a mistress owre them ; and I am sure it would be a pity to see onything going WTong about my place, for everybody will say, that has seen it, that the sun doesna wauken the birds to throw the soul of music owto a lovelier spot, in a' his jour- ney round the globe. Now, Sir William,' he added, ' it is needless for me to say it, for every person within twenty miles round is aware that I am just as fond o' Miss Catherine as the laverock is o' the blue lift ; and it is equally sure and evident to me, that she cares for naebody but mysel.' Levvis ! imagine my feelings when I heard him utter this ! There was a word that I may not write, which filled my soul, and almost burst from my tongue. I felt agony and indignation bum over my face. Again, I heard him add — ' When I was over in the middle o' harvest last, ye re- member that, in your presence, I put the question fairly to her ; and,allhougli she hung dow^lher head and said nothing, yet that, sir, in my opinion, is just the way a virtuous woman i ought to consent. I conceive that it shewed true affection, mid sterling modesty ; and, sir, what I am now thinJcing is this — Catherine is very little short of one and twenty, 2nd I, not so young as I have been, am every day drawing nearer to mv sere and yellow leaf; and I conceive it would be great foolishness — ye will think so yourself — to be putting ofT time.' ' My worthy friend,' said Sir William, ' vou are aware that the union you speak of is one from which my consent has never been withheld ; and I am conscious that, in com- plying with your wishes, I shall bestow my daughter's hand upon one whose heart is as worthy of her affections as his actions and principles are of her esteem.' Sir Peter gave a skip (if I may call a stride of eight feet by such a name) across the room, be threw the pipe in the grate, and, seizing the hand of Sir William, exclaimed — * Oh, joy supreme! oh. bliss bcyontl compare! My cup ruus owre — lleaveu's bounty can nac mair!' ' Excuse tlie quotation from a protant, author,' he added, ' upon such a solemn occasion ; but he exjiresses exactly my feelings at this moment ; for, oh, could you feel what I feel here !' — And he laid his hand ujwn his breast. ' Whatever be my faults, whatever my weakness, I am strong in gra- titude.' You will despise me for having played the part of a mean listener. Be it so, Lewis — I despise, 1 hate mvself. 1 heard it proposed that the wedding-day should take place within a month: but the consent of Catherine was not yet obtained. I perceived her enter the apartment ; I witnessed her agony wlien her father communicated to her the proposal of his friend, and his wish that it should be agreed to. Shall I tell it you, niy friend, that the agony 1 perceived on lier countenance kindled a glow of joy upon mine .'' Yes, I rejoiced in it, for it filled my soul with hope, it raised my heart as from the grave. Two days after tliis, and I wandered forth among the woods, to nourish hope in solitude. Every trace of the recent storm had passed away, the voung buds were wooing tlie sunbeams, and the viewless cuckoo lifted up its voice from afar. All that fell upon the ear, and all that met the eye, contributed to melt the soul to tenderness. IMv thoughts were of Catherine, and I now thought how I should un- bosom before her my whole heart ; or, I fancied her by my side, her fair face beaming smiles on mine, her lips whisper- ing music. I\Iv spirit became entranced — it was filled with her image. With my arms folded upon my bosom, I was wandering thus unconsciously along a footpath in the wood, when I was aroused by the exclamation — ' Edward !' It was my Catherine. I started as though a disembodied spirit had Diet me on mv path. Her agitation was not less tlum mine. I stepped forward — I would have clasped her to my bosom — but resolution forsook me — her presence awed me — I hesitated and faltered — ' ^liss Forrester !' I had never called her by any other name ; but, as she afterwards told me, the word then went to her heart, and she thought, ' He cares nut for me, and I am lost 1' Would to Heaven that such had ever remained her thoughts, and your friend would have been less guilty and less uTetched than he this day is ! I offered her my arm, and we walked onward together; but we spoke not to each other — we could not speak. Each had a thousand things to say, but they were all unutterable. A stifled sigh escaped from her bosom, and mine responded to it. We had approached within a quarter of a mile of her father's house. Still we were both silent. I trembled — I stood suddenly still. ■ Catherine !' I exclafmed, and mv eves remained fixed upon the ground — mv bosom laboured in agony — I struggled for words, and, at length, added, ' I cannot return to your father's— Caiherine, I ciuuiot 1' J75i TALES OF THE BOEDERS. ' Edward !' she cried, ' whither — whither would you go 1 — you would not leave me thus ? What means this V ' Means ! Catherine ! returned I — ' arc ye not to bt another's 1 Would that I bad died before I had looked upon thy face, and my soul was lighted with a fleeting joy, only that the midnight of misery might sit down on it for ever !' ' Oh, speak not thus !' she cried, and her gentle form shook as a blighted leaf in an autumnal breeze ; 'speak not lan- guage unfit for you to utter or me to hear. Come, dear Edward !' ' Bear Edward !' I exclaimed, and my arms fell upon her neck — ' that word has recalled me to myself ! Bear Edward ! — repeat those words again ! — let the night-breeze whisper them, and bear them on its wings for ever ! Tell me, Catherine, am I indeed dear to you V She burst into tears, and hid her face upon my bosom. ' Edward she sobbed, ' let us leave this place — I have said too much — let us return home.' ' No, loved one !' resumed I ; 'if you have said too much, we part now, and eternity may not unite us! Farewell, Catherine ! — be hapjjy ! Bear my thanks to your father, and say — but, no, no ! — say nothing — let not the vTetch he has honoured with his friendship blast his declining years ! Farewell, love !' I pressed my lips upon her sno\vy brow, and again I cried — ' Farewell !' ' You must not — shall not leave me !' she said, and trem- bled ; while her fair hands grasped my arm. ' Catherine,' added I, ' can I see you another's ? The thought chokes me ! Would you have me behold it i" — shall my eyes be withered by the sight? Never, never! Forgive me ! — Catherine, forgive me ! I have acted rashly, perhaps cruelly ; but I would not have spoken as I have done — I would have fled from your presence— I would not have given one pang to your gentle bosom^your father should not have said that he sheltered a scorpion that turned and stung him ; but, meeting you as I have done to-day, I could no longer suppress the tumultuous feelings that strug- gled in my bosom. But it is past. Forgive me — forget me !' Still memory hears her sighs, as her tears fell upon my bosom, and, wringing her hands in bitterness, she cried — ' Say not, forget you I If, in compliance with my father's will, I must give my hand to another, and if to him mv vows must be plighted, I will keep them sacred — yet my heart is yours !' Lewis! I was delirious with joy, as I listened to this con- fession from her lips. The ecstasy of years was compressed intoamomentof deep, speechless, almostpainful luxury. We mingled our tears together, and our vows went up to hea- ven a sacrifice pure as the first that ascended, when the young earth offered up its incense from pai'adise to the new-born sun. I remained beneath her father's roof until within three days of the time fixed for her becoming the bride of Sir j Peter Blakely. Day by day, I beheld my Catherine move to I and fro like a walking corpse — pale, speechless, her eyes fixed and lacking their lustre. Even 1 seemed unnoticed by her. She neither sighed nor wept. A trance had come over her faculties. She made no arrangements for her bri- dal ; and when I at times whispered to her that she should be mine ! O Lewis ! she would then smile — but it was a smile where the light of the soul was not — more dismal, more vacant than the laugh of idiotcy ! Think, then, how unlike they were to the rainbows of the soul which I had seen radiate the countenance of my Catherine ! Sir Peter Bhikely had gone into Roxburghshire, to make preparations for taking home his bride, and her father had joined you in Edinburgh, relative to the affairs of Prince Charles, in consequence of a letter which he had received from you. and the contents of which might not even be com- municated to me. At any other time, and this lack of conti. dence would have provoked m v resentment ; but my thoughts were then of other things, and I heeded it not. Catherine and I were ever together ; and for hour succeeding hour we sat silent, gazing on each other. my friend ! could vout imagination conjure up our feelings and our thoughts in this hour of trial, you would start, shudder, and think no Tiore. The glance of each was as a pestilence, consuming the other. As the period of her fatiier's return approached, a thousand resolutions crowded within mybosom— some of magnanimity some of rashness. But I was a coward — morally, I was a coward. Though I feared not the dra«-n sword nor the field of danger more than another man, yet miscrv compels me to confess what I was. Every hour, every moment, the sacrifice of parting from her became more painful. Oh ! a mother might have torn her infant from her breast, dashed it on the earth, trampled on its outstretched hands, and laughed at its dying screams, rather than that I now could have lived to behold my Catherine another's. Suddenly, the long, the melancholy charm of my silence broke. I fell upon my knee, and, clenching my hands together, exclaimed — ' Gracious Heaven ! — if I be within the pale of thy mercy, spare me this sight I Let me be crushed as an atom — but let not mine eyes see the day when a tongue spealis it, nor mine ears hear the sound that calls hci another's.' I started to my feet, I grasped her hands in frenzy, I exclaimed — ' You shall be mine!' I took her hand. ' Catherine !' I added, ' you will not — you shall not give your hand to another! It is mine, and from mine it shall not part!' And I pressed it to my breast as a mother would her child from the knife of a destroyer. ' It SHALL be yours !' she replied wildly ; and the feeling of life and consciousness again gushed through her heart. But she sank on my breast, and sobbed — ' My father ! O my father !' ' Your father is Sir Peter Blakely 's friend,' replied I, ' and he will not break the pledge he has given him. AVith his return, Catherine, my hopes and life perish together. Now only can you save yourself — now only can you save me. Fly with me ! — be mine, and your father's blessing will not be withheld. Hesitate now, and farewell hap- piness.' She hastily raised her head from my breast, she stood proudly before me, and, casting her bright blue eyes upon mine, with a look of piercing inquiry, said — ' Edward ! ^^ hat would you have me to do ? Deep aerished ; remorse entered my breast, and I trembled in the grasp of ruin. Sir William Forrester elf.'cted his escape to France', hut his estates were confis- cated, a«ul my Catherine was robbed of the inheritance that would have "deseemled to her. With this came another pang, more hitter than the loss of lier father's fortune ; ior he, now a fugitive in a strange land, and unconscious of my condition, had a right to exjicct assistance from me. The thought dried up my very heart's blood, and made it burn within me — and I tiiought I heard my Catlierine soliciting mi> to extend the means of life to her fither, whieh I was no longer able to bestow upon herself: for, with the ruin o( our cause, my schemes of borroiving, and of allaying the clamour of creditors, perished. But it is said that evils come not singly — nor did they so with me; they came as a legion, eacli more cruel than tli.at which preceded it. Within three weeks after the eoniisea- tion of the estates of Sir William Forrester, the individual who held the mortgage upon mine died, and his projierty passed into the hands — of whom? — Heaven and earth Lewis, I can hardly write it. His property, including the mortgage on my estate, passed into the hands of — Sir Peter Blakely ! I could have died a thousand deaths rather than have listened to the tidings. l\Iy estate was sunk beyond its value, and now I was at the mercy of the man 1 had injured — of him I hated. I could not doubt hut that, now that I was in his power, he would wTing from me his ' pound o' flesh' to the last grain — and he has done it ! — the monster has done it ! But to proceed with my history. My Catherine was now a mother, and longer to conceal from her the wTetchedness that sujTounded us, and was now ready to overwhelm us, was impossible ; yet I lacked the courage, the manhness to acquaint her with it, or prepare her for the coming storm. But she had penetrated my soul — she had read our con- dition ; and, while I sat by her side buried in gloom, and my soul groaning in agony, she took my hand in hers, and said — ' Con.ie, dear Edward, conceal nothing from me. If I cannot remove your sorrows, let me share tliera. I have home much, but, for you, I can bear more." 'What mean ye, Catherine.''' I inquired, in a tone of petulance. ' !My dear husband,' replied she, with her wonted affec- tion, ' think not I am ignorant of the sorrow that preys upon your heart. But brood not on poverty as an affliction. You may regain affluence, or you may not ; it can neither add to nor dinunish my happiness but as it affects you. Only smile upon me, and I will welcome penury. Why think of degradation or of suffering.'' Nothing is degrading that is virtuous and honest ; and where honesty and virtue are, there alone is true nobility, though their owner be a hewer of wood. Believe not that poverty is the foe of aft'ection. The assertion is the oft-repeated, but idle falsehood of those who never loved. I have seen mutual love, joined with content, within the clay walls of liiuuble cotters, ren- dering their scanty and coarse morselsweeterthan ihesavoury dainties of the rieli ; and affection increased, mid esteem rose, from die knowledge that they endured privation togpther, and for each other. No, Edward," she added, hiding her face upon my shoulder, ' think not of sutVering. We are young, the world is wide, and Heaven is bountif"ul. Leave riches to those who envy them, and atfectiou will render the morsel of our industry delicious.' ]\Iy first impulse was to press her to my bosom ; but pride and shame mastered me, and, with a troubled voice, I exclaimed — ' Catherine !' 174 TALES OF THE BORDERS. ' O Edward !' sne continued, and lior tears burst forth ' let us study to understand each other — if I am worthy of being your wife, I am worthy of your confidence.' I could not ieT)Iy. I w:is dumb in admiration, in reverence of virtue and affection of which I felt myself unworthy. A load seemed to fall from my heart, I pressed her lips to mine. ' Cannot Edward be as happy as his Catherine,' she con- tinued; we have, at least, enough for the present- and, with frugality, we have enough for years. Come, love, wherefore will vou be unhappy? Be you our purser .''' And, endeavour- ing to smile, she gently placed her purse in my hands. ' Good Heavens !' I exclaimed, striking my forehead, and the purse dropped upon the floor ; ' am I reduced to this .' Never, Catherine ! — never ! Let me perish in my penury ; but crush me not beneath the weight of my own meanness ! Death ! — what must you think of me .''' ' Think of you .''' she replied, with a smile, in which affec- tion, playfulness, and sorrow met — ' I did not think thatyou would refuse to be your poor wife's banker.' ' Ah, Catherine !' cried I, ' would that I had half your virtue — half your generosity.' 'The half.''' she answered laughingly — 'have you not the whole.'' Did I not give you hand and heart — faults and virtues ? — and you, cruel man, have lost the half already ! Ungenerous Edward !' ' Oh !' exclaimed I, ' may Heaven render me worthy of such a wife !' ' Come, then,' returned she, ' smile upon your Catherine —it is all over now.' ' What is all over, love ?' inquired I. j ' Oh, nothing, nothing,' continued she, smiling — ' merely the difhculty a young husband has iji making his wife ac- quainted with the state of the firm in wliich she has become 8 partner.' ' And,' added I, bitterly, ' you find it bankrupt.' ' Nay, nay,' rejoined she, cheerfully, ' not bankrupt ; rather say, beginning the world with a small capital. Come, now, dearest, smile, and say you will be cashier to the firm of Fleming & Co.' ' Catherine ! — Catherine !' I exclaimed, and tears filled my eyes. ' Edward ! — O Edward !' returned she, laughing, and mimicking my emotion ; ' good by, dear — good by !' And, picking up the purse, she dropped it on my knee, and trip- ncd oat of the room, adding gaily — For still the booae aSi ir,s would call her hence. Fondly as I imagined that I loved Catherine, I liad never felt its intensity until nov/, nor been aware of how deeply she deserved my atfection. i\Iy indiscretions and misfortunes had taught me the use of money — they had made me to know that it was an indispensable agent in our dealings with the world ; but they had not taught me economy. And 1 do not believe that a course of misery, continued and increasing throughout life, would ever teach this useful and prudent lesson to one of a warm-hearted and sanguine temperament ; nor would anv power on earth, or in years, enable him to put it in practice, save the daily .and endearing example of an dfl^ectionate and virtuous wife I do not mean the influence which all women possess during the oftentimes morbid admiration of what is called a honeymoon ; but the deeper and holier power which grows with years, and departs not with grey hairs — in our boyish fancies being embodied, and our young feelings being made tangible, in the never-changing smile of her who was the sun of our early hopes, the spirit of our dreams — and who, now, as the partner of our fate, ever smiles on us, aud, by a thousand attentions, a thousand kindnesses and acts of love, becomes every day dearer and more dear to the heart where it is her only ambition to reign dud sit secure in her sovereignity — while her chains are soft as her own oosom, ana sne spreads her virtues around us, till they become a part of our own being. Like aa angel stretch, ing his wings over innocence. Such is the power and in- fluence of every woman who is as studious to reform and delight the husband as to secure the lover. Such was the influence which, I believed, 1 now felt ovei my spirit, and which would save me from future folly and from utter ruin. But I was wrong, I was deceived — yes, most wickedly I was deceived. But you shall hear. On examining the purse, I found that it contained between four imd five hundred pounds in gold and bills. ' 'i his,' thought I, ' is the wedding present of her father to my poor Catherine, and she has kept it until now ! Bless her ! Heaven bless her.' I wandered to and fro across the room, in admiration of her excellence, and my bosom was troubled with a painful sense of my own unworthiness. 1 had often, when my heart was full, attempted to soothe its feelings by pouring them forth in rhyme. There were writing materials upon the table before me. I sat down — I could think of nothin but my Catherine, and I wrote the following verses TO SIY WIFE. Call woman — anprl, goddess, what Tou will — Witli all lli.at fancy brcatliee at passion's call, AVitll all that r.ipture fondly raves — and still That one word — Wife — out\ics — contaius thc3i all It is a word of music which can fill The soul witii melody, when sorrows fall Round us, like darkness, and her heart alcae Is all that fate has left to call our owu. Iler hosom is a fount of love that swells, \Videns, and deepens mth its own outpouring. And, as a desert stream, for ever wells Around her husband's heart, when cares devouring Dry up its very blood, and man rebels Against his being! — When despair is lowering. And ills sweep round him, like an angry river, Slic is his star, his rock of hope for ever. Yee ; woman or.ly knows what 'tis to monm— . She only feels how slow the moments glide. Ere those'her young heart loved in joy return And breathe .affection, smiling by her side. Hers only are the tears that waste and bum — The an.\ious watchings, and aticctiou's tide That never, never ebbs ! — hers are the cans No ear hatli heard, and which ao bosom shares: Cares, like her spirit, delicate as light Trembling at early da-n-n from morning stars ; — Cares, .all unknown to feeling and to sight Of rougher man, whose stormy bosom war« With each fierce passion in its fiery might ; Nor deems how look unkind, or absence, jars Affection's silver chords by women wove. Whose sovd, whose business, and whoso life is — Lovk I I left the verses upon the table, that she might find them when she entered, and that they might whisper to her that I at least appreciated her excellence, however little I might have merited it. Lewis, even in my solitary cell, I feel the blu.sh upon mv i cheek, when I think of the next part of my history. Jly i hand trembles to write it, and I cannot now. Jlethinks that I even the cold rocks that surround me laughs at me deri- sion, and 1 feel myself tlie vilest of human things. But I cannot describe it to-day — I have gone too far already, and I find that my brain burns. I have conjured up the past, and 1 would hide myself from its ren\enibrance. Another day, when my brain is cool, when my hand trembles luit, I may tell you all ; but, in the shame of my own debasemeut, my reason is shaken from its throne." Here ended tlie first p.art of the Hermit's manuscript; and on another which ran thus, he had ^vTitten the word^— TALES OF THE BORDERS, i;.", " MY HISTORY CUJNTINUED." " I t(.ld you, Lewis, where I last broke off my history, thnt J loft the verses on the table for the eye of my Ciitlicrinc. i (li)ubtcd not th;it I wnukl devise some plan of matcliloss wisdom, and that, wilh the money so unexpectedly conic ■Tilo my possession, 1 would redeem my broken fortunes. I went out into the streets, takinp; the purse with me, scarce knowing what I diil, but musing on what to do. ] met one who had been a fellow-gambler with mc, when at Jie I'niversily. 'Ha! I'h'Miing!' he exclaimed, 'is such a man alive! I expected that you and your Prince would liave crossed ihe water together, or that 30U would have exhibited at Carlisle or 'lower Hill.' He 8[)oke of the run of good fortune he had had on the previous niglit — (for he was a gambler still.) ' Five thou- s.ind !' said he, rubbing his hands, ' were mine within five minutes.' ' l''ive thousand !' I repeated. I took my Catherine's purse in my hand. Lewis ! some demon entered my soul, and extinguished reason. ' Five thousand !' I repeated again ; ' it would rescue my Catherine and my child from jicnury.' I thought n( the joy I should I'cel in jilacing the money and her purse n^ain in her hands. I accompanied him to the table of de- struction. For a time fortune, that it might mock my misery, and not dash the cup from my lips until the}- were parched, seemed to smile on me. But I will not dwell on particulars ; my friend ' laughed to see the madness rise' within me. 1 iiecame desperate — nay, I was insane — and all that my wife had ]iut into my hands, to the last coin, was lost. Never, until that moment, did I experience how terrible was the torture of self-reproach, or how fathomless the abyss of human wretchedness. I would have raised my hand against my own life ; but, vile and contemptible as I was, I had not enough of the coward within me to accomplish the act. 1 thought of my mother. She had long disowned me, partly from my follies, and partly that she adhered to the house of Hanover. But, though I had squandered the estates which my father had left mc, 1 knew that she was still rich, and that she intended to bestow her wealth upon my sister ; for there were but two of us. Y'ct I remembered how fondly she had loved me and I did not think that there was a feel- ing in a mother's breast that could spurn from her a penitent eon — for nature, at the slightest spark, bursteth into a flame. I resolved, therefore, to go as the prodigal in the Scriptures, and to throw myself at her feet, and confess that I had sin- ned against Heaven, and in her sight. I wrote a note to my injured Catherine, stating that I was suddenly called away, and that I would not see her tigain perhaps for some weeks. Almost without a coin in my pocket, I took my journey from London to Cumberland, where my mother dwelt. Night was gathering around me when I left London, on the road leading to St Alban's. But I will not go through the stages of my tedious journey ; it issutficient to say, that 1 allowed myself but little time for sleep or rest, and, on Ihe eighth day after my leaving London, I found myself, after an al>sence of eighteen years, again upon the grounds of my ancestors. Foot-sore, fatigued, and broken down my ap- pearance besjioke way-worn dejection. I rather halted than walked along, turning my face aside from every passenger, and blushing at the thought of recognition. It was mid- day when I reached an eminence, covered with elm trees, and skirted by a hedge of hawthorn. It commanded a view of what was called the Priory, the house in which I was bom. and which was situated within a mile from where I Blood. The village church, surrounded by a clump of dreary yews, lay immediately at the foot of the hill to my right and the road leading from thence to the Priorv crossed before me. It was a raw and dismni day; the birds sat shivering on the lealle.ss branches, and the cold, black cloud.s, seemed wedged together in a solid mass, ready to fall U[io 1 the earth and criisli it ; and the wind moaned over the bar« fields. Yet, disc'\tion of again visiting his stock, and making a pur- chase of other articles. And, added she, to a jiarticular friend — " It docs a body good to buy from him, for he is always »o pleasant." But Keuben saved her the trouble ; for early tlie next day he called at her house with a silk dress under his arm. lie said — "It was the last piece of the kind ho had — indeed it was a perfect beauty, ei|Ual to real India, and would become her exceedingly — and not to tliink about the price, for tliat was tio object !" " What then am I to think about ?" thought Priscilla ; And she admired the silk much, but, pcradventurc, if the truth wore told, she admired its owner more. Keuben spent more than two hours beneath the roof of the too-long-ncglected spinster. During tliose two hours slie blusiied, his tcmguo faltered, and when he rose to depart, he had neither the silk beneath his arm, nor the cash for it in ids pocket ; but he shook her hand long and fervently, and he would have saluted her fair check — but true love, like true genius, people say, is always modest. Priscilla, on being left alone, felt her heart in a very unusual tumult ; and now she examined her face in a mirror, and again admired tlie silk wliich he liad presented to her. She had alwa3's heard him spoken of as a steady, thrinng, and deserving young man ; and it became a settled point in her mind, that if he directly popped the important question, she would be as candid with liim, and at once answer — " Yes." Iteubcn was frequently seen in SIofTat after this, even when he brought no goods for sale ; and within six months after her purchase of the lace, the sacred knot, which no man may unloose, was tied between them ; and at the age of forty ami four years and four months, but before time had " wrote a wTiidcle" on her fair brow, Miss Priscilla Spottiswoode blushed into JIrs Purves. While following his avocation as a chapman, Reuben had accumulated some what more than two hundred pounds, which, with the five hundred that his wife brought him, raised his capital to more than seven hundred. But he was not a man lo look only at the needle point of things, or whose soul would be hist in a nutsliell. Onward 1 onward ! was the ruling principle of Reuben — he had been fortunate in all his speculations, and he trusted to be fortunate still. Never, during all bis wanderings, had he lost sight of the important discoveries of j\rku right, and of the improvements which were every day being made upon them ; and while he was convinced that thev would become a source of inexhaustible wealth to tlie nation, he still cherished the hope and the belief that they would enrich himself. He said also — and Airs Purves agreed with hira — that travelling the country was a most uncomfortable life for a married man. He there- fore sold his horse and his covered cart, disposed of his stock at prime cost, and, with his wife and capital, removed to Manchester. He took a room and a cellar, at the top of L'can Street, ttiiShe begged for- giveness for the step she had taken, and sought permission to return with her husband, and receive mine and her mother's blessing. She concluded the letter by signing herself oitt ' afl^ectionate and dutiful daughter, Elizabeth Austin.' ' Dutiful! — the ungrateful, the silly gipsy!' cried I. fling, ingdown the letter, and trampling it under mv feet, in pure madness; 'she shall never inherit a penny of mine — she shall never enter my door. She is ruined — she has married worthlessness and misery !' It was some time before Priscilla said anything ; but I saw she was very greatlv afl'ected. At last, the mother's love for her otisnring got the better of everv other consideration in her heart, and she endeavoured to soothe me, and to prevail on me to forgive Elizabeth, and to see her again. I had intended that the marriage portion of my daughters, on the very day they became wives, should be ten thou- sand each, providing that 1 approved of the match — though I by no manner of means wished or intended to direct their clioice, or control their aft'ections, further than it was my duty as a parent to see that they did not throw themselves away. But I was perfectly persuaded tljat, to give ten thousand, or the half of it, or any sum, to such a person as Elizabeth had got, would be no better than to fling it into the lire. However, the entreaties and persuasion of Priscilla pre- vailed. I consented that Elizabeth should return, and gave iier husband five thousand pounds as her dowry, with a pro- mise of more, if they should conduct themselves to my satis- faction. He had not received the money many days when they set out for London. Some time previous to this, I thought 1 had observed a sort of particular kin Iness between mv daughter Rachel and my clerk, Thomas Galloway, of whom I have already spoken, ano to whose worth I have borne testimony. He was a native of Newton-Stewart, and a young man of humble parentage, like myself; but I liked him nothing the worse upon that account ; for, in my opinion, there is no real respectability, save that only which a man purchases through iiis own merits. Now, 1 once or twice, wlien 1 went out to enjoy the air in the summer nights, after business hours, perceived Rachel and Thomas oxtering together along the green lanes, behind a place in the suburbs that is called Strangeways. Such was the high opinion that 1 had of him, that 1 was determined, if there was anything between them, to offer no obstacle in the world to their marriage. 1 considered that a cha- racter, a disposition, and a knowledge of business, such as Thomas had, were far before riches. But 1 knew that, in certain respects, both of the two were such bashful creatures, ; that neither of them would dare to mention the matter to I me. So, after tlieir familiarity became every day more ap- parent, though they tried to hide it, .lud when, at different times, I had tried humorously to sound both of them in vain, 1 mentioned the subject to Priscilla. I found tliat she had perceived it long before me; for won, en have quick eyes iu I such matters. But she said that Raclicl was such a strange, I reserved lassie, that, though her own bairn, she could not! speak to her with a mother's freedom ; though, now that she] had heard mv mind concerning the match she wi'uhl ask J TALES OF THE BORDERS. \Wi Riichel how niiilfcrs stood botwcon her ;iiul Tlinmas Gallo- way, tliiit very ihiy. SIh'. tlicicfoip, went into tlio room wliorf Iviiclicl w;ia slt- t.iiig scuing, and, after talking about various niattors, hy ,vay of not just breaking the matter at oner, slio said — ' Kachul, dear, are yc aware if 3'our faitiier lias ever made oiiy sort o' recompense to Thomas fialloway for liis trouble in gaun a' tlie way to Gretna after lOlizabelh, when the loolish lassie ran away wi' young I\Fr Austin?' ' I do not thirdc it,' replied Kaeliel. Then,' said her mother, ' be has not done what be ought to have done. Indeed, I think he would only be doing his duty if he were to do something for Thomas ; for he is a fine, genteel, deserving lad. Do ye not think so, dear?' This was a home-lbrust which our bit lassie was not pre- pared for, and it brought the vermilion to her cheeks. But, after a moment's hesitation, she said, though not without a manifest degree of confusion — ' Yes, I think him a very deserving lad." But her mother bad made the first step, and she was not to be put back, and, therefore, she continued — ' He is a lad that will rise in the world yet. and he weel deserves it; for a kinder, or more prudent, and obliging young m.an, I never saw — and I am glad, binny. that ye hae the good sense to think weel o' him.' ' Jlotherl' saidRachel,andherconfusion greatly inrreased. Come, love,' continued I'riseilla, ' ye needii.i blush or conceal onytbing frae yer mother. She is a bad mother, indeed, that a daughter dauma trust wi' a virtuous secret ; .iiul I hope ye ne'er saw onytbing in me, Rachel, that need debar ye frae making yer feelings known to me. Dinna sup])Ose, love, that I am sae short-sighted but that I hae observed the tender affection that has been long springing up between ye ; and I have not only observed it, but I hae dune sae wi' satisfaction and pleasure, for I know not a young man that I could have more credit by in calling him son-in-law. So, look up, dear, and tell me at once, am I not right — would ye not prefer Thomas to any man ye have seen, for your husband ?' And she kindly took our daughter by the hand. ' Yex, mother !' faltered my sweet, blushing blossom ; and she sank her head on her mother's breast. 'That is right, binny,' said her mother; 'but ye micht hae tauld me before, and it would hae saved ye baith mony a weary hour o' uneasiness, I hae nae doobt. But j-e shall find nae obstacles in yer way, for it is a match that will gie baith yer faithcr and me great satisfaction. He has observed the attentions o' Thomas to ye as weel as my- sel, and spoke to me concerning it this very hour. Indeed, I may just tell ye, that he desired me to mention the sub- ject to ye ; and if I found that yer feelings were as we sup- posed, that the marriage should immediately take place. And ho will also take Thomas into partnership.' Kachel, poor thing, gi'at with joy when her mother told her what I had said ; and when Thomas heard of it, he could have flung himself at my feet. The upshot was, that, in a few weeks, they were married, and I took Thomas into partnership with me, which took a great burden oft' my shoulders ; and, more particularly, as I had recently entered into a canal speculation, and become one of the principal shareholders and directors of the company. For twelve months from the time that Elizabeth went to Ix)ndon, we had but two letters from her; and one of them ivas abusing her sister for what she tern;(:d her ' grovelling spirit,' in marrying her father's clerk, and bringing disgrace upon the family. When I saw the letter, my answer back to her was — ' Elizabeth, my woman, do not forget yourself. Vour rister has married a deserving lad, and your mother mar- ried a packman !' As to her husband, I never, in my bom days, had a scribe from his pen. But I heard, from peo])le that had business in London, that they were Hinging away the money I had given them with both liands ; and that Elizabeth, so far fioni being a check upon her husband's extravagance, thonghllessly whirleil rouml wilb liiin in the vortex of fashionable dissipation. The third letter we received from lier was written about fourteen months after her marriage. It was in a str.iin of the wildest agony. In one line, she implored to have her full dowry bestowed upon her, and in the next she demanded it — and again she entreated me to release her ' dear Charles,' who, as siie termed it, had been imprisoned for the paltry sum of five hundred pounds. I saw jilaiidy that, to do any thing for them would be money thrown away, and only en couraging them in their ridiculous, not to say wicked, course of fashion and fully. Therefore, in a way, 1 had made up my mind to let them feel what distress was, so that they might come to some kind of an understanding of the value and the use of money, which it was as clear as the sun at noonday that neither the one nor the other of them had. But Priscilla was dreadfully distressed ; I never had seen anything put her so much about. We held a sort of family parliament, consisting of my wife and myself, Rachel and her husband, to consider what was best to be done. Rachel, poor thing, pled hard for her sister, which I was pleased to see, though I said nothing ; and Thomas suggested that I should release Charles Austin from i)rison, and give Eliza- beth two hundred pounds for their immediate wants, and that I would set up her husband in whatever line of business he might prefer; but that I neither could nor should kee]> them in idleness and extravagance. This advice was agreed to. I released my hopeful son-in-law from prison, and sent two hundred pounds to my daughter, with a long letter of admonition, entreaty, and advice. We heard no more of them for six months ; and I wrote to Elizabeth again, and her mother wrote, and so did Rachel ; but we all wrote in vain — our letters were never noticed. But there was one jiiorning that my son, Thomas Galloway, came into the parlour where I was sitting, with an open letter in his hand, and his face 'ivas like the face of death. A trembling seized me all over. I was glad that there was no person beside me, for I saw that something had hap- pened. 'Thomas I' cried I, as I saw the letter shake in his hand, ' is my bairn dead .'' ' No,' said he, ' hut' and he stood still and handed me the letter. I just glanced my eyes on it, and it fell out of my hand. It shewed us that a forgery had been committed upon our house to the extent of ten thousand pounds I — and, oh, hor- rible ! — by mv own worthless son-in-law, Charles Austin ! It was a dreadful trial — I knew not how to act. If I permit- ted the villain to escape unpunished, I was doing an injus- tice to society ; and, oh, on the other hand, how was it pos sible that I could send to the gallows the husband of my own bairn ! Thomas posted oft' instantly to London, to see what could be done ; and I broke the bitter tidings in the best manner I could to Rachel and her mother. Their distress was even greater than mine. Thomas returned in a few days, and brought us word that the villain had escaped abroad somewhere ; but where he could not learn ; and it was sup- posed he had taken his wife and child with him — for they had an infant about eight months old. It was not the loss of the money, nor even the manner in which it had been lost, that chiefly afl'ected me, but the loss, the ruin, the disgrace of my bairn. Indeed, it made such an impression upon me, that I never was the same man after- wards in any business transaction. Therefore, about twelve months after this melancholv event, I purchased a property in Dumfriesshire, .and Priscilla and myself went to reside upon it. I intrusted the entire business to the prudence and 184 TALES OF THE BORDERS. experience of ITiomas Galloway, and became merely a sleep- ing partner in the firm. We had been better than a year in our bouse in Dum- friesshire — it "as about the Christmas time, and Thomas and Kaohel were down seeing us, with their little son, who was just beginning to run about and climb upon our knees. It was a remarkably cold and gousty night, and a poor wandering woman came to our door, with a bairn at her breast, and another on her back, and begging a morsel, and a shelter for herself and infants. We were all sitting round the fire, when one of the servants came up and told us con- cerning her, asking if they might give her a seat by the fire. I never liked to harbour beggars, and, says 1 — ' No : there is a shilling for her ; gie her some broken meat, and tell her to go down to the village — it is only two miles.' ' And give her this from me,' said Rachel ; and Priscilla had her hand in her pocket, when the lass added — 'Poor creature! Idinnabelievesheisable to crawl as far as tDe village, for baithher and her infants seem starving to death.' * What like is she f asked Rachel. ' A lionny young creature, Ma'am/ answered our servant. ' but sair, sair dejected,' She had better be brought in, father," said my daughter. ' TaKe her iuto the kitchen, and let her warm nerself and her bairns by the fire,' said Priscilla. And the iaas went away down stairs and brought her in. Well, in the course of half an hour, Rachel went do^vn to the kitchen, to see if there was anything that she could do for the poor woman and her infants — anything that they stood in need of, like — such as a gown, a frock, a pair of shoes, or the like of those things. But the sound of her light footsteps was hardly off the stairs, when we heard a scream, and the exclamations^ ' Sister ! sister I' I started to my feet — we all started to our feet ; and Pris- cilla, and Thomas, and myself looked for a moment at each other, in an agony of wonder. We hurried down to the kitchen, and there was my Rachel weeping on the bosom of the poor wandering woman — my lost, my ruined Elizabeth ! S ne sobbed as though her heart would burst, and would have fallen down and embraced our knees ; but her mother pressed her to her bosom, and cried — ' BIy bairn ! my bairn !' I took her hand, and, bursting into tears, could only sob — My poor Betsy !' — and I felt her heart throb, throbbing, as she pressed my hand to her breast. Rachel again flung her arms around her neck, and took her and her little ones from the kitchen, to clothe them with her oivn apparel, and that of her child. Poor Priscilla could do nothing but weep ; and, when Rachel had clothed her, and cast aside the rags that covered her, she brought her into the parlour, where we sat waiting for them; and her mother and myself again rose and kissed her cheek, and bade her welcome. Throughout the evening, she sat sobbing and weeping, with her face towards the ground, and could not be comforted. We were not in a state of feeling to ask her questions, nor her to answer them. But, in a few days, she voluntarily unbosomed her griefs to her sister, who communicated to roe her tale of wo. It was evident that she knew nothing of the crime which her hus- band had committed, and we agreed that she should never know, as it would only add a heavier load to her broken spirit. All she knew was, that he had hastened with her to America, wdiere he had changed his name, in consequence, as he said, of a property that had fallen to him in that coun- try. He had long treated her with coolness and neglect, and prohibited her from waiting to us, using threats that made her tremble for her life, if she attempted to do so. But, on arriving in America, his indifference gave place to open brutality ; and, in a few months, he basely deserted her and her infants in a strange land. She sold the few trinkets and articles of apparel he had left her; and, with her childreii in her arms, fainting and broken-hearted, slowly performed a journey of several hundred miles, to the nearest seaport. where, after waiting for some months, doling out the little money she had left, to procure food for her children, she, at length, found a vessel about to sail for Greenock ; and her passage-money deprived her of her last coin. My poor bairn had been landed in Scotland without a penny in her pocket, and was begging her way to Manchester, to throw hersell at our feet, when Providence directed her to our door. Never do I think of the sufferings which my bairn mtist at this period have endured, but my heart melts within me, and I think what must have been the tortures of her proud spirit before she could seek assistance from the cold and measured hand of charity. Oh, what a struggle there must have been in her gentle bosom, between the agonies of hun- ger, the feelings of the mother, and the shame that burned upon her face, and deprived her of utterance ! — and while her bits of bairnies clung to her neck, or pulled at her tat tered gown, and cried — ' Bread, mother, give us bre:ifl,' while her own heart was fainting within her, how dreadful must have been the sufferings that my poor Betsy endured . The idea that she was perishing, and begging like a wTetchco outcast from door to door, while we were faring sumptuously every day, brings the tears to my eyes even to this hour ; and often has my heart overflowed in gratitude to the Power that in mercy directed her steps to her father's house. From that day, she and her children have never left my roof; and she shall still share equally with Rachel. About six months ago, I received a double letter from America. The outer one was from a clergvman, and that which was enclosed, bore the signature of Charles Austin. It was his confession on his deathbed, begging my forgiveness, and the forgiveness of his wife — my poor injured Elizabeth — for the wrongs and the cruelties he had committed against her; and declaring that she was ignorant and innocent of the crime he had committed against me. He also beseeched me to provide for his children, for their mother's sake, if they yet lived. It was the letter of a dying penitent. Four thou- sand of the sum with which he had absconded, he had not squandered, and it he had directed to be restored to me. The letter from the clergj-man announced the death and burial of the unliappy young man, and that he had becu appointed to carry his dying requests into efl'ect. I communicated the tidings of his death, and his repent- ance of his conduct towards her; and slie received them meekly, but wept, as the remembrance of young affection touched her heart. Such, sir, is an account of my speculations, and the losses and crosses with which they have been attended. But success and happiness have predominated ; and I must say that I am happier now than ever. And, at the season when Rachel and Thomas come down to see us, with the bairns, and they run romping about with Elizabetl\'s, who are two interesting creatures, and three or four will be crying at once, ' Granny this, and Granny that,' I believe there is not a happier auld woman in Britain than my Priscilla, who first enabled me to speculate to some purpose." WILSON'S TALES OF THE BORDERS. JMIDSIDE MAGGY; OR, THE BANNOCK O' TOLLISIIILL. "Every bannock had its maik, but the bminock o* Tollishill," Scottish J'rouero, Brmkk, gentle rpiuler, thou hast often lieard the proverb quoted ahove, that " Every bannock had its mailc, but tlie bannock o' Tullishill." The saving hath its origin in a romantic tradition of the Lannnermoors. wliich I shall relate to thee. Tollishill is the name of a sheep-farm in Berwick- shire, situated in the parish of Lauder. Formerly, it was divided into three farms, which were occupied by different tenants ; and, by way of distinguishing it from the others, that in which dwelt the subjects of our present story was penerally called IMidside, and our heroine obtained the appellation of IMidside Maggy. Tollishill was the property of John, second Earl, and afterwards Duke of Lauderdale — a personage whom I shall more than once, in these tales, have occasion to bring before mine readers, and whose character posterity hath small cause to hold in veneration. Yet it is a black character, indeed, in which there is not to he found one streak of sunshine ; and the story of the " Bannock of Tollishill" rcferreth to such a streak in the history of John, the Lord of Thirlestane. Time hath numbered somewhat more than a hundred and ninety years since Thomas liardie became tenant of the principal farm of Tollishill. Now, that the reader may picture Tliomas Hardie as he was, and as tradition hath de- scribed him, he or she must imagine a tall, strong, and fresh- coloured man of fifty ; a few hairs of grey mingling with his brown locks; a countenance expressive of much good nature and some intelligence ; while a Lowland bonnet was drawn over his biow. The other parts of his dress were of coarse, grey, homespun cloth, manufactured in Earlston; and across iiis shoulders, in summer as well as in winter, he wore the mountain plaid. His principles assimilated to those held by the men of the Covenant; but Thomas, though a native of the hills, was not without the worldly prudence which is :onsidered as being more immediately the characteristic of the buying and selling children of society. His landlord was no favourer of the Covenant ; and, though Thom.is wished Well to the cause, he did not see the necessity for making his cird, the Lord of Lauderdale, his enemy for its sake. He, dierefore, judged it wise to remain a neutral spectator of the religious and political struggles of the period. But Thomas was a bachelor. Half a century had he been in the world, and the eyes of no woman had had power to throw a spark into his heart. In his single, solitary state he was happy, or he thought himself happy; and that is much tlie same thing. But an accident occurred which led him first to believe, and eventually to feel, that he was but a solitary and comfortless moorland farmer, toiling for he knew not what, and laying up treasure he knew not for whom. Yea, .ind while ethers had their wives spinning, carding, knitting, and smiling before them, and their bairns running laughing and sporting round about them, he was but a poor deserted creature, with nobody to speak to, nobody to care for, or to care for him. Every person had some object to strive for and to make them strive, but Thomas Hardie ; or,, to use his own words he was "i"«t in the situation o' a 24. A' PL, L tewhit that has lost its mMe — lc-rflnel .' le-n'lt'Ct ! it cried. flapjiing its wings impatiently and forlornly — and Ic-tr/uet .' le-n'/iccl! answered vacant echo frae the dreary glens." Thomas had been to Morjieth disposing of a j]art of his hirsels, and he had found a much better market for thein than he anticipated. He returned, therefore, «itli a heav^ purse, which generally hath a tendency to create a light and merry heart ; and he arrived at \V'estruther, and went into a hostel, where, three or four times in the year, he was in tlit habit of spending a cheerful evening with his friends. Hi had called for a quegh of the landlady's best, ami he sal down at his ease with the liquor before him, for he had but a slioit way to travel. He also pulled out his tobacco-box and hi; pipe, and began to inhale the fumes of what, up to that period, was almost a forbidden weed. But we question much, if the royal book of James the Sixth of Scotland and First of Eng- land, which he published against the use of tobacco, ever found its way into the Larnmermnors, though the Indian weed did ; therefore, Thomas Hardie .sat enjoying his glass and his pipe, unconscious or regardless of the fuhninations which he who was king in his boyhood, had published against the latter. But he had not sat long, when a fair maiden, an acquaintance of " mine hostess," entered the hostelry, and began to assist her in the cutting out or fashioning of a crimson kirtle. Her voice fell upon the ear of Thomas like the " music of sweet sounds." He had never heard a voice before that not only fell softly on his ear, but left a linger- ing murmur in his heart. She, too, was a young thing o( not more than eighteen. If ever hair might be called " gowden," it was hers. It was a light and shining bronze, where the prevalence of the golden hue gave a colour to the whok. Her face was a thing of beauty, over which health spread its roseate hue, yet softly, as though the westling winds had caused the leaves of the blushing rose to kiss her cheeks, and leave their delicate hues and impression behind them. She was of a middle stature, and her hgure was such, although arraj'ed in homely garments, as would have com- manded the worship of a connoisseur of grace and symmetry. But beyond all that kindled a flame within the hitherto ob- durate heart of Thomas, was the witching influence of hei smile. For a full hour he sat with his eyes fixed upon her ; save at intervals, when he withdrew them to look into the unwonted agitation of his own breast, and examine the cause, " Amongst the daughters of women," thought he unto himself — for he had a sprinkling of the language of the age about him — " none have I seen so beautiful. Her cheeks bloom bonnier than the heather on Tollishill, and her bosom seems saft as the new-shorn fleece. Her smile is like a blink o' sunshine, and would mak summer to those on whom it fell a' the ye.ar round." He also discovered, for the first time, that " Tolli-hill was a dull place, especially in the winter season." A\'hen, therefore, the fair damsel had arrayed the fashion of the kirtle and departed, without once having seemed to observe Thomas, he said unto the goodwife of the hostelry — " And wha, noo, if it be a fair question, m.ay that bonny lassie V.e .'" " She is indeed a bonny lassie," answered the landlady, " and a guid lassie, too ; and I hae nae doot but, as ye are a single man, Maistcr Hardie, ycr question is fair enough. Her name is JIargarct Lylcstone, and she is the only bairn o' a puir infirm widow that cam to live hcie some twa or three years sjnp. They cam frac south owre some way. and I 18C TALES .OF THE BORDERS. am sure they hae seen better dnys. "U'e thoclit at first that the auld woman had been a Catholic; but I suppose that isna the case, though they certainly are baith o' them strong £lpiscopawHans,an(l in nae way favourable to the preachers or the word o' the Covenant ; but I maun say for Maggv, that she is a bonny, sweet-tempered, and obleegin lassie — though, puir thing, her mother has brocht her up in a WTang way." JIany days had not passed ere Thomas Ilardie, arrayed in his Sunday habiliments, paid another visit to Westruther ; and he cautiousl)' asked of the goodwife of the hostel many questions corK;erning Margaret; and, although she jeered him, and said that " Blaggy would ne'er think o' a grey-haired carlelike him," he brooded over the fond fancy; ancl, although on this visit he saw her not, he returned to Tollishill, think- ing of her as his bride. It was a difficult thing for a man of fifty, who had been the companion of solitude from his youth upwards, and who had lived in single blessedness amidst the silence of the hills, without feeling the workings of the heart, or being subjected to the influence of its pas- sions — I say, it was indeed difficult for such a one to declare, in the ear of a blooming maiden of eighteen, the tale of his first affisctions. But an opportunity arrived which enabled liim to disembosom the burden that pressed upon his heart. It has been mentioned that Margaret Lylestone and her mother were poor ; and the latter, who had long been bowed down with infirmities, was supported by the industry of her daughter. They had also a cow, which was permitted to graze upon the hills without fee or reward ; and, with the milk wliicli it produced, and the cheese tlicy manufactured, together with the poor earnings of Slargaret, positive want was long kept from them. But the old woman became more and more infirm — the hand of death seemed stretching over her. She requii-ed nourishment which Jlargaret could not procure for h^?r ; and, that it might be procured — that her mother miglit live and not die — the fair maiden sent the cow to Kelso to be sidd, from whence the seller was to bring 'vitli him the restoratives that her parent required. Now, it so was that Thomas Ilardie, the tenant ofToUls- hill, was in Kelso maiket when the cow of Widow Lylestone was oifered for sale ; and, as it possessed the characteristic marks of a good milcher, he inquired to whom it belonged. On being answered, he turned round for a few moments, and stood thoughtful ; but again turning to the individual who liad been intrusted to dispose of it, he inquired — " And wherefore is she selling it ?" " Really, IMaister Ilardie," replied the other, " I could not positively say, but I hae little doot it is for want — absolute necessity. The auld woman's very frail and v^ry ill — I hae to tak a' sort o' things oot to her the nicht fiae tiie doctor's, after selling the cow, and it's no in the power o' things tbat her dochter, industrious as she is, should be able to get them for her otlierwise." Thomas again turned aside, and diew his sleeve across his eyes. Having inquired the price sought for the cow, he handed the money to the seller, and gave the animal in charge to one of his herdsmen. He left the market earlier than usual, and directed his servant that the cow should be taken to Westruther. It was drawing towards gloaming before Thomas ap- proached tlie liabitation of the widow ; and, before he couhl fummon courage to enter it for the first time, he sauntered, for several minutes, baclcward and fin'ward on the moor, bv the side of the Blackadder, which there silently wends its *ay, as a dull and simple hura, through the moss. He felt nil the awkwardness of an old man stniggling beneath the influence of a young feeling. He thouglit of what he should say, how he should act, and how he would he re- ceived. At length, he had composed a short introductory and explanatory speech which pleased him. He thought it contained both feeling and delicacy (according to his notions of the hrtlcr) in their proper proportions, and after repeating I it three or four times over by the side of the Blackadder, he proceeded towards the cottage, still repeating it to himself as lie went. But, when he raised his hand and knocked at the door, his heart gave a similar knock upon his bosom, as though it mimicked him ; and every idea, every word of the introductory speech which he had studied and repeated again and again, short though it was, was knocked from his memory. The door was opened hy Margaret, who invited him to enter. She Avas beautifid as when he first beheld her — he thought more beautiful — for she now spoke to him. Her mother sat in an arm-chair, by the side of the peat fire, and was supported b_v pillows. He took off his bonnet, and per- formed an awkward but his best salutation. " I beg your pardon," said he, hesitatingly, " for the liberty I have taken in calling upon 30U. But — I was in Kelso the day — and" He paused, and turned his bonnet once or twice in his hands. " And," he resumed, •' I observed, or rather I should say, I learned that ye intended to sell your cow ; but, I also heard that 3'e was very ill, and" Here he made another pause. " I say I heard that ye was very ill, and I thocht it would be a hardship for ye to part wi' crummie, and especially at a time when ye are sure to stand maist in need o' every help. So I bought the cow — but, as I say, it would be a very great hardship for ye to be without the milk, and what the cheese may bring, at a time like this ; and, therefore, I hae ordered her to be brocht back to ye, and ane o" my men will bring her hame presently. Never consider the cow as mine, for a bachelor farmer like me can better afford to want the siller, than ye can to want yer cow ; and I micht hae spent it far mair foolishly, and wi' less satisfaction. Indeed, if ye only but think that good I've dune, I'm mair than paid." " IMaister Ilardie," said the widow, " what have I, a stranger widow woman, done to deserve this kindness at your hands ? Or how is it in the power o' words for me to thank ye .'' HE who provideth for the widow and the fatherless will not permit you to go unrewarded, though I caanot. O Alaj-giuret, hinny," added she, " thank our benefactor as we ought to thank him, for I cannot." Fair Margaret's thanks were a flood of tears. "Oh, dinna greet!" said Thomas; "I would tentimesowTe rather no hae hocht the cow, but hae lost the siller, than I would hae been the cause o' a single tear rowin doun yer bonny cheeks." ' O sir," answered the widow, " but they are tears o'gniti- tude that distress my bairn, and nae tears are mair precious." I might till how Thomas sat down by the peat fire l^etween the widow and her daughter, and how he took the hand of the latter, and entreated her to drj- up her tears, saying that his chief happiness would be to be thought their friend, and to deserve their esteem. The cow was brouglit back to the widow's, and Thomas returned to Tollishill with his herds- man. But, from that night, he became almost a daily A-isitcr at the house of Airs Lylestone. He provided whatever she required — all that was ordered for her. He spoke not of love to Margaret, but he wooed her through his kindness to her mother. It was, perliaps, the most direct avenue to her affi'ctions. Yet, it was not because Thomas thought so that he pursued this course, but because he wanted confidence to make his appeal in a manner more formal or direct. The widow lingered many months; and all that lay within the power of human means he caused to he done for her, to restore her to health and strength, or at least to smooth her dying pillow. But the last was all tliat could be done. Where death s]ucadeth the shadow of his wing, there is no escape from sinking beneath the baneful infl\ience of its shade. Airs Lykistone, finding that the hour of her depar- ture drew near, took the hand of her benefactor, and when she had thanked him for all tlje kindness which he had shewn towards her, she added — "But, O sir, there is one thing that makes the hand of TALES OF THE BOKDERS. 187 death licavy. When tlie sod is cauld upon my Iiroast, who will look alter my piiii' orphan — my lioiiny (Uitlu.'rloss and motherless Mar;;iiret ? Where will she lind a hanie ?' " O Weni," said Tlionias, " if tlie lilvo o' mo durst say it, she neediia hae far to {;anft, to find a hame and a heart lijO. Woulil she only he mine, 1 would be her protector — a' that I have should he hers." A pleani of joy hrifjhtened in the eyes of the dyin;; widow. ' JIargaret !" she exelaiined faintly ; and Jlarj^ari t laid her faee upon tlie hed and wept. " O my Ixilrn 1 my puir hairn I" continued her mother, " shall I see ye protected and provid- ed for, hefore I am ' where the wieked cease from trouhling and the weary are at rest," which eanna he lang rioo.'" Thomas groaned — tears glistened in his eyes — he held his breath in suspense. The moment of trial, of condemna- tion or aeijuittal, of happiness or misery, had arrived. With an eager impatience, he waited to hear her answer. But Margaret's licart was prepared for his proposal. He had first touched it with gratitude — he had obtained her esteem ; and where these sentiments prevail in the bosom of a woman whose affections have not been bestowed upon another, love is not far distaut — if it be not between them, and a part of both. "Did ever I disobey you, mother?" sobbed Margaret, raising lier parent's hand to her lips. " No, my bairn, no !" answered the widow. And raising liersclf in the bed, she took her daughter's hand and placed it in the hand of Thomas Ilardie. " Oh !' said he, " is this possible ? Does my bonny Mar- garet really consent to mak me the happiest man on earth ? Shall I hae a gem at ToUiskill that 1 wadna exchange for a monarch's diadeni .'''' It is sullicient to say that the young and lovely JIargaret Lylestone became INIrs Ilardie of ToUishill ; or, as she was generally called, " Midside Maggie." Her mother died within three months after their marriage, but died in peace, having, as she said, " seen her dear bairn blessed wi' a leal »nd a kind guidinan, and ane that was weel to do.' For two years after their marriage, and not a happier couple than Thomas and IMidside Maggie was to be found on all the long Lammermoors, in the Jlerse, nor yet in the broad Lothians. They saw the broom and the heather bloom in their season, and they heard the mavis sing before their dweUing ; yea, they beheld the snow f;dling on the mountains, and the drift sweeping down the glens ; but while the former delighted, the latter harmed them not, and from all they drew mutual joy and happiness. Thomas said that " JIaggy was a matchless mfe ;" and she that " he was a kind, kind husband." But the third winter was one of terror among the hills. It was near the new year, the snow began to fall on a Satur- day, and when the following Friday came, the storm had not ceased. It was accompanied by frost and a fierce wind, jnd the drift swept and whirled like awful pillars of alabas- ter, down the hills, and along the glens — " Swcoiiiiig the flocks and herds." Fearful was the wrath of the tempest on the Lammermoors. Many farmers suffered severely, but none more severely than Thomas Ilardie of ToUishill. Hundreds of his sheep had perished in a single night. He was brought from prosperity .0 the brink of adversity. But another winter came round. It commenced with a severity scarce inferior to that which had preceded it, and again scores of his sheep were buried in tVe snow. But February had not passed, and scarce had the sun entered what is represented as the astronomical sign of the liro fis/i, in the heavens, when the genial influen'^e of spring fell with almost summer warmth upon the earth. During the night, the dews came heavily on the ground, and the sun sucked it up in a vapour. I'.ut the herbage gicw rapidly, and the flocks ate ot it greedily, and licked the dew ere the sun rose (o clry it up. It brought the murrain aniong<;t them ; they (lied by hundreds ; and those that even fattened, hut did not die, no man would purchase ; or, if purchased, it was only upon the understanding that the money should he returned if tlie animals were found uiinmnd. Tliese misfortunes were too much for Thomas Ilardie. Wilhin two years he found himself a ruined man. But lie grieved not for the loss ol his flocks, nor yet for his own sake, but for that of his fair young wife, whom he loved as the apple of his eye. Many, when they liiard of his misfortunes, said that they were sorry for bonny Midside Maggy. But, worst of all, the renl-dav of Thomas Ilardie drew near; and, for the first time since he had hi Id a fann, he w.as unable to meet his landlord with his money in his hand. Margaret beheld the agony of his spirit, and she knew its cause. She put on her Sunday hood and kirtle ; and profes- sing to her husband that she wished to go to Lauder, she took her way to Thirlestane Castle, the residence of their |iroud landlord, before whom every tenant in arrear trembled. With a shaking hand she knocked at the hall door, and after much perseverance and entreaty, was admitted into the presence of the haughty Earl. She curtsied low before him. " Well, what want ye, my bonny lass?" said Lauderdale, eyeing her significantly. " i\Iay it please yer Lordship," replied iMargaret, " I am the wife o' yer tenant, Thomas Ilardie o' ToUisbill; an' a guid tenant he has been to yer Lordship for twenty years and mair, as your Lordship maun weel ken." " lie has been my tenant for more than twenty years, say ye ?" interrupted Lauderdale ; " and ye say ye are his wife : why, looking on thy bonny face, I should s.ay that the heather hasna bloomed twenty times on the knowes o' Tol-" lishill since thy mother bore thee. Yet ye say ye are his wife ! Beshrew me, but Thomas Ilardie is a man o' taste. Arena ye his daughter ?" " No, my Lord; his first, his only, an' bis la\vfu' wife — an I would only say, that to ye an' yer faither before ye, for mair than twenty years, he has paid his rent regularly an , faithfully ; but the seasons hae visited us sairly, very saiily, for twayears successively, my Lord, an' the drift hasdestroyed, an' the rot rooted oot oor flocks, sae that we are hardly able to hand up oor heads amang oor neebors, and to meet yer Lordship at yer rent-day is oot o' oor power ; there- fore hae I come to ye to implore ye that we may hae time to gather oor feet, an' to gie yer Lordshfp an' every man his due, when it is in oor power." " Hear me, guidwife," rejoined the Earl ; " were I to listen to such stories as yours, I might have every farmer's wife on my estates coming whimpering and whinging, till I was left to shake a purse with naething in't, and allowing others the benefit o' my lands. But it is not erery day that a face like yours comes in the shape o' sorrow hefore me • and, for ae kiss o' your cherry mou', (and ye may t.ake my compliments to your auld man for his taste,) ye shall have a discharge for your half-year's rent, and see if that may set your husband on his feet again." " Na, yer Lordship, na !" replied IMargaret; "it would ill become ony woman in ni}- situation in life, an' especially a manied ane, to he daffin wi' sic as yer Lordship. I am the wife o' Thomas Ilardie, wha is a guid guidman to me, an' I cam here this day to entreat ye to deal kindly wi him in the day o' his misfortune." " Troth," replied Lauderdale — who could feel the force of virtue in others, though he did not always practise it in his own person — " I hae heard o' the blossom o' ToUishill before, an' a bonny flower ve are to blossom in an auld man's bower, but I find ye modest as ye -'H'e bonny, an' upon one condi- tion will I grant yer request. Ye hae tauld me o' yer hirselc being buried wi' the drift, an that the snaw has covered the May primrose on Leader braes ; now it is Martinmas, an' if in June, ye bring me a snowball, not only shall ye be quit o 188 TALES OF THE BORDERS. yer Irack rent, Itut ye sliall sit fi-oe in ToUislilll until Jlar- tinmaa next. But see that in June yc bring nie tlie snow- ball or the rent." Jlargaret made her obeisance before the Earl, anri. thank- ing him, ■withdrew. But she feared the coming of .June ; for to raise the rent even then she well kneiv would be a thing impossible, and she thought also it would be equally so to preserve a snow-ball beneath the melting sun of .June. Though young, she had too much prudence and honesty to keep a secret irom her husband ; it was her maxim, and it was a good one, that " there ought to be no secrets between a man and his wife, which the one would conceal from the other." She therefore told him of her journey to Thirle- stane, and of all that had passed between her and the Earl. Thomas kissed her cheek, and called her his " bonny, artless Maggy ;" but he had no more hope of seeing a snowball in June than she had, and he said, " the bargain was like the bargain o' a crafty Lauderdale." Again the winter storms howled upon the Lammermoors, and tlie snow lay deep upon the hills. Thomas and his herdsmen were busied in exertions to preserve the remainder of his flocks; but, one day, when the westlingwinds breathed with a thawing influence upon the snow- clad hills, Jlarga- ret went forth to where there was a small, deep, and sha dowed ravine l)y the side of the Ijcader. In it the rivulet formed a pool and seemed to sleep, and there the grey trout loved to lie at ease ; for a high dark rock, over which the brushwood grew, overhung it, and tlie ra3's of tlie sun fell not upon it. In the rock, and near the side of the stream, was a deep cavity, and Miirgaret formed a snowball on the brae top, and she rolled it slowly down into the shadowed glen, till it attained the magnitude of an avalanche in minia- ture. She trode upon it, and pressed it firmly together, until it obtained almost the hardness and consistency of ice. She rolled it far into the cavity, and blocked up the mouth ot the aperture, so that neither light nor air might penetrate ihe strange coftVr in which she had deposited the equally Btrange rent of TollishiM. Verily, common as ice-houses are in our day, let not Midside Maggy be deprived of the merit of their invention. I have said that it was her maxim to keep no secret from her husband ; but, as it is said there is no rule without an exception, even so it was in the case of Slargaret, and there was one secret which she communicated not to Thomas, and that was — the secret of the hidden snowball. But June came, and Thomas Ilardie was a sorrowful man. He had in no measure overcome the calamities of ibrmcr seasons, and he was still unprepared with his rent. Marga- ret shared not his sorrow, but strove to cheer him. and said — " We shall hae a snawba' in June, though I climb to the top o' Cheviot for it." " O my bonny lassie," replied he^and he could see the summit of Cheviot from his farm — " dinna deceive yersel' wi' what could only be words spoken in jest ; but, at ony rale, I perceive there has been nae snaw on Cheviot for a month past ." Now, not a week had passed, hut Margaret had visited the aperture in the ravine, where the snowball was concealed, not through idle curiosity, to perceive whether it had melted away, but more effectually to stop up every crevice that might have been made in the materials with which she had blocked up the mouth of the cavity. But the third day of the dreadful month had not passed, >hen a messenger arrived at Tollishill from Tliirlestane with the abrupt mandate — " June has come !" " And we shall be at Thirlestane the morn," answered Margaret. " O my doo," said Thomas, " what nonsense are ye talk- ing ! — that isna like ye, Margaret ; I'll be in Greenlaw Jail tlie morn ; and oor bits o" things in the boose, and oor flocks, will be seized by the haruics o' the law — and the only thing that distresses me Is, what is to come o* you binny." " Dinna dree the death ye'l) never dee," said Jfarg-aret, aflectionately ; " we shall see, if we be spaaed, «hat the morn will bring." " The fortitude o' yer mind, JIargaret," said Thomas, taking her hand ; and he intended to have said more, to have finished a sentence in admiration of her worth, but his heart filled, and be was silent. On the following morning, JIargaret said unto him — " Now. Thomas, if ye are ready, we'll gang to Thirlestane. It is aye waur to expect or think o' an evil than to face it." " JIargaret, dear," said he, " I canna compreliend ye— wherefore should I thmst my head into the lion's den ? It will soon enough seek me in my path." Nevertheless, she said unto him " Come," and bade hira to be of good heart ; and he rose and accompanied her. Bui she conducted him to the deep ravine, where the waters seera to sleep, and no sunbeam ever falls; and, as she removed the earth and the stones, with which she had blocked up the mouth of the cavity in the rock, he stood wondering. She entered the aperture, and rolled forth the firm mass of snow, which wa.s yet too large to be lifted by hands. AVhen Tho- mas saw this, he smiled and wept at the same instant, and he pressed his wife's cheek to his bosom, and said — " Great has been the care o' my poor iMarg.aret, but it is o' no avail ; for, though ye hae proved mair than a match for the seasons, the proposal was but a jest o' Lauderdale." " What is a man but his word i" replied Margaret ; " and him a nobleman too." " Nobility are but men," answered Thomas, " and sel- dom better men than ithcr folk. Believe me, if we were to gang afore him wi' a snawba' in oor hands, we should only get lauched at for our pains." " It was his ain agreement," added she; " and, at ony rate, we can be naething the waur for seeing if he will abide bv it.' Breaking the snowy mass, she rolled up a portion of it in a napkin, and the}' went towards Thiilestane together; though often did Thomas stop by the way and say — " .Slargaret, dear, I'm perfectly ashamed to gang upon this business ; as sure as I am standing here, as I have tauld ve, we will only get oorselves lauched at." " I would rather be lauched at," added she, " than despised for breaking my word ; and, if oor laird break bis noo, wha wadna despise him .'•" Harmonious as their wedded life had hitherto been, there was what might well nigh be called bickerings between them on the road ; for Thomas felt or believed that she was leading him on a fool's errand. But they arrived at the castle of Thirlestane, and were ushered into the mansion of its proud lord. " Ha!" said the Earl, as they entered, " bonny Jlidside Maggy and her auld goodman ! Well, vhat bring ye } — the rents o' Tollishill, or their equiv.alent }" Thomas looked at his young wife, for he saw nothing to give him hope on the counteniuice of Lauderdale, and he thought that he pro- nounced the word " cqu'iva'ent" with a sneer. " I bring ye snaw in June, my Lord," rejilied Margaret, " agreeably to the terms o' yer bargain ; and ara sorry, for your sake and oors, that it hasna yet been in oor power to bring gowd instead o't." Loud laughed the Earl as JIargaret unrolled the huge snowball before him; and Thomas thought unto himself, ■' I said how it would be." But Lauderdale, calling for his writing materials, sat down and wrote, and he placed in the hands of Thomas a disch.arge, not only for his back rent, but for all that should otherwise be due at the ensuing Martinmas. Thomas Hardie bow ed and bowed again before the Earl, low and yet lower, awkwardly and still more awkwardly, j and bo endeavoured to thank him, but his tongue faltered TALES OF THE BORDERS, lug In tlie perfoimanco of its olTiep. lie could have tiiken his liaiid in liis luiil wruiif; it li'ivcntly, itMvin<; his fingers to (•x|)rL'ss wh it liis tongue coiihl not ; hut his hiiid was an Ivirl, and there was a nocess;iry distance to he ohservid hetwcen an I'"arl and a l.aninicrninor I'arnu'r. " Thaniv not nie, gondinan," said LaiuhTdale, " hut thank tlie modesty and diseretinn o' yr winsome wile." Margaret was silent; hut gratituch' tor the kinihiess which the Ivirl had shewn unto lier husliand and lierscll', took (h'cp root in her heart, (iratituih', indeed, formed tlie i)re(hj- minating ]niiui|)le in lier character, and fitted her even for acts of heroism. 'J'he unexpected and unwonted generosity of tlie l''arl had enahled Tliomas llardie to overcome the losses with which the fury of the seasons had overwhelmed him, and he pros- pered heyond any farmer on the liills. But, while he pros- pered, the Earl of Lauderdale, in his turn, was overtaken by adversity. The stormy times of t!io civil wars raged, and it is well known with what devotedness Jjauderdale followed the fortunes of the King. AVhen the Commonwealth hegan, he was made prisoner, conveyed to London, and con- fined in the Tower. There nine weary years of cajitivity crept slowly and gloomily over him ; hut they neither taught him mercy to otlurs nor to moderate his anihition, as was manifested wlien ])ower and prosperity again cast their beams upon him. But he now lingered in the Tower, with- out prospect or hope of release, living upon the hare sus- tenance of a prisoner, while his tenants dwelt on his estates, and did as they jileased with his rents, as though they should not again liehold the face of a landlord. But l\[idsids INIaggy grieved for the fate of him whose generosity- had brought prosperity, such as they had never known before, to herself and to her luishand ; and in the fulness of her gratitude she was ever planning schemes for his delivemce ; and she urged upon her husband that it was their duty to attempt to deliver their henefactor from captivity, as he had delivered them from the iron grasp of ruin, when misfortune lav heavily on them. Now, as duly as the rentdav came, from the Jlartinmas to which the snowball had been his discharge, Thomas llardie faithfully and punctually locked ;iway his rent to the last farthing, that he might deliver it into the hands of his laird, should he again he permitted to claim his own; but he saw not in what way fhey could attempt his deliverance, as his wife proposed. " Thomas," said she, " there are ten lang years o' rent due, and we liae the siller locked awaj-. It is o' nae use to us. for it isna oors; hut it may he o' use to him. It would enahle him to fare hotter in his prison, and maybe to put a liandfu o'gowd into the hands o' his keepers, and therein' to escape ahroad, and it wad furnish him wi' the means o' living when ho was ahroad. Kemenilier his kindness to us, and think that there is nae sin equal to the sin o' ingratitude." " But," ad(ied Thomas, " in what way could we get the money to liimi' for, if we were to send it, it would never reach him, and, as a prisoner, he wouldna he allooed to receive it." " Let us talc it to him oorsels, then," said Jlargaret. " Tak it oorsels!" exclaimed Thomas, in amazement, " a' the way to London ! It is oot o' the question a'thegither, Margaret. Wc wad he robbed o' everv plack hefore we got half-wav; or, if we were even there, hoo, in .i' the world, do ye think we could get it to him, or that we would he allooed to see him .'" " Leave that to me," was lier reply; " only say tc will gang, and a' that shall he accomplished. There is nae obsta- cle in the way hut the want o' ver consent. But the debt, and the ingratitude o' it thegither, hang heavy upon my heart." Thomas at length yielded to the importunities of his wife, and agreed that they should make a pilgrimage to London, lo pay his rent to his captive laird ; though how they were Xo reirrv tlie goUl in r.ifi ty, through an unsettled country, a distance of more than three Iiundred miles, was a difficulty be could not overcome. But .Marnarct removed his fe.ars; she desired him to count out the gold, and jilace it before her ami when he had done .so, she went to the meal-tub and looli out a quantity of jiease and of hariev meal mixed, sntbcienl to knead a goodly fadge or bannock ; and, when she had kneaded it, and rolled it out, she took the golden jiieces and pressed them inio the paste of the cmbrvo bannock, and again she doubled it together, and again rolled it out, and kneaded into it the remainder of the gold. She then fa- shioned it into a thick bannock, and placing it on the hearth, covered it with the red ashes of the peats. 'J'homas sat marvelling, as the formation of the singulai purse proceeded, and wlwn he beheld the operatiim com- pleted, and tlie hannoek placed ujion the hearth to bake, he only exclaimed — " W'eel, woman's ingenuity dings a'! I wadiia hae thocht o' the like o' that, had I lived a thoosand years I O Margaret, hinny, but ye are a strange ane." " Hoots," replied she, " I'm sure ve mieht easily hae imagined that it was the safest plan we could hae thocht upon to carry the siller in safetv ; for I am sure there isna a thief between the Tweed anil Lon'on toun, that would covet or carry awa a bear bannock." " Troth, my doo, and 1 believe ye're rieht," replied Thomas ; " hut wha could hae thocht o' sic an expedient? Sure there never was a bannock baked like the bannock o' Tollishill." On the third day after this, an old man and a fair lad, hefore the sun had yet risen, were observed crossing the English Border. They alternately carried a wallet across their shoulders, which contained a few articles of ajiparel and a bannock. They were dressed as shepherds, and pas- sengers turned and gazed on them as they passed along ; for the beauty of the youth's countenance excited their admira- tion. Never had Lowland bonnet covered so iirir a brow The elder stranger was Thomas llardie, and the youth none other than his Jlidside Jlaggy. I will not follow them through the stages of their long and .veary journey, nor dwell upon the perils and adventures they .'ncountered by the uay. But, on the third week after they had left Tollishill, and when they were heyond the town called Stevenage, and almost within sight of the me- tropolis, they were met by an elderly military-looking man who, struck with the lovely countenance of the seeming youth, their dress, and way-worn appearance, accosted them, saying — " Good morrow, strangers ; ye seem to have travel- led far. Is this fair youth your son, old man.-" " He is a gay sih frcend," answered Thomas. " And whence come ye?" continued the stranger. " Frae Leader Haughs, on the bonny Borders o' the north countrie," replied Margaret. " And whence go ye?" resumed the other. " First, tell me wha ye may be that are sae inquisitive," interrupted Thomas, in a tone which betrayed something like impatience. " Some call meGeorge Monk," replied the stranger mildly ; " others. Honest George. I am a general i.a the Parliamen- tary army." Thomas reverentially raised his hand to his bonnet, and howed his head. " Then pardon me, sir," added Jlargaret, " and if ve indeed be the guid and gallant general, sma' offence will ve tak at onything that may be said amiss hv a country laddie. We are tenants o' the Lord o' Lauderdale, whom ve now keep in captivity ; and, though we mayna think as he thinks, vet we never faund him hut a guid landlord ; and little guid, in my opinion, it can do to onyhody to keep him, as he h.aa been noo for nine years, caged up like a bird. Therefore, though oor ain bu.siness that has broeht us up to London should fail, I winna regret the juurney, since it has afforded me an opportunity o' seein ver Excellency, and soliciting ycr interest, whicli maun be pooerfu, in behalf o' oor l.iird, and that ve xvould release him fr.ie his Brison. and, if he 190 TALES OF THE BORDERS. niiclitna remain in tliis country, obtain qermission for him I to gang abro;i(l." " Ye plead fairly and honestly for yer laird, fair youth," returned the general; "yet, though he is no man to be trusted, I needs say he hath had his portion of captivity measured out abundantly ; anrl, since ye have minded me of him, ere a week go round I ^vill think of ^vhat may be done for Lau- derdcJe." Other questions were asked and answered — some truly, and some evasively; and Thomas and Margaret, blessing Honest George in their hearts, went on their way rejoicing at having met him. On arriving in London, she laid aside the shepherd's garb in which she had journeyed, and resumed her wonted appa- rel. On the second day after their arrival, she went out upon Tower-hill, dressed as a Scottish peasant girl, with a basket on her arm ; and in the basket were a few ballads, and the bannock of ToUishill. She alFectcd silliness, and, acting the part of a wandering minstrel, went singing her liallads towards the gate of the Tower. Thomas followed her at a distance. Her appearance interested the guard ; and as she stood singing before the gate — •' What want ye, pretty face?" inquired the officer of the guard. " Your alms, if j'e please," said she, smiling innocently, " and to sing a bonny Scotch sang to the Laird o' Lauderdale." The officer and the sentinels laughed ; and, after she had sung them another song or two, she was permitted to enter the gate, and a soldier pointed out to her the room in which Lauderdale was confined. On arriving before the grated windows of his prison, she raised her eyes towards them, and began to sing " Leader Haiiglis." The wild, sweet melody of his native land, drew Lauderdale to the windows of his prison-house, and in the countenance of the minstrel he remembered the lovely features of Midside Maggy. lie requested permission of the keeper that she should be ad- mitted to his pi'esence ; and his request was complied with. " Bless thee, sweet face !" said the Eaii, as she was admit- ted into his prison ; " and you have not forgotten the snow- ball in June ?" And he took her hand to raise it to his lips. " Hooly, hooly, my guid Lord," said she, withdrawing her Jiand ; •• my fingers were made for nae sic purpose — Thomas Hardie is here" — and she laid her hand upon her fair bosom — " though now standing withoot the yett o' the Tower." Lauderdale again wondered, and, with a look of mingled curiosity and confusion, inquired — " Wherefore do ye come — and why do ye seek me .''" " I brocht ye a snaw- ba" before," said she, " for yer rent — I bring ye a bannock Hoo." And she took the bannock from the basket and placed it before him. " Woman," added he, " are ye really as demented as I thocht ye but feigned to be, when ye sang before the mndow ?' " The proof o' tlie bannock," replied Blargaret, " will be in the breakin' o't." " Then, goodwife, it will not be easily proved," said he — ■ and he took the bannock, and with some difficulty broke it over his knee ; but, when he beheld the golden coins that were kneaded through it, for the first, perhaps the last and only time in his existence, the Earl of Lauderdale burst into tears, and exclaimed — " Well, every bannock has its maik, l)ut the bannock o' ToUishill ! Yet, kind as ye hae been, the gold is useless to ane that groans in hopeless captivity." " Yours has been along captivity," said Margaret; " but it is not hopeless ; and, if honest General Monk is to be trusted, from what he tauld me not three days by-gane, t)efore a week gae roond, ye will be at liberty to go abroad, and there the bannock o' ToUishill may be o' use." The wonder of Lauderdale increased, and he replied — IMonk will keep his word — but what mean ye of him.'" And she related to him the interview they had had with the General by the way. Lauderdale took her hand, a raj' of hope and joy spread over his face, aiid he added — " Never sliall ye rue the basin o' the bannock, if auld times come back again." Margaret left the Tower, suiging as she had entered it, and joined her husband, whom she found Icanin.' over the railing around the moat, and anxiously waiting her return. They spent a few davs more in London, to rest and to gaze upon its wonders, and again set out upon their journey to ToUishill. General Monk remembered his promise; witliia a week, the Earl of Lauderdale was liberated, with permis- sion to go abroad, and there, as Margaret had intimated, he found the bannock of ToUishill of service. A few more years passed mund, during which old Thomaa Hardie still prospered ; but, during those vears, the Common- wealth came to an end, the King was recalled, and with him, as one of his chief favoirrites, returned the Earl of Lauder- dale. And, when he arrived in Scotland, clothed with power whatever else he forgot, he remembered the bannock of ToUishill. Arraved in what might have passed as royal state, and attended by fifty of bis followers, he rode in princely pomp to the dweUing of Thomas Hardie and ]Mid- side Maggy; and when they came forth to meet him, he dismounted, and drew forth a costly silver girdle of strange workmanship, and fastened it round her jimp waist, saying — " Wear this, for now it is my turn to be grateful ; and fur your husband's life, and your life, and the life of the gene- ration after ye," (for they had children,) " ye shall sit rent free on the lands ye now farm. For, truly, every bannock had its maik but the bannock o' ToUishill." Thomas and Margaret felt their hearts too full to express their thanks ; and, ere they could speak, the Earl, mounting his horse, rode towards Thirlestane ; and his followers, wav- ing their bonnets, shouted — " Long Uve Blidside flaggy, queen of ToUishill." Such is the story of " The Bannock o' ToUishill ;" and it is only necessary to add, for the information of the curious, that I believe the silver girdle may be seen until this day in the neighbourhood of ToUishill, and in the possession of a descendant of Midside ilaggy, to whom it was given. THE SABBATH WRECKS. A LEGEND OF DUNBAR. It was a beautiful Sabbath morning in the autumn of l.'iJJ: a few small clouds, tinged with red, sailed sowlv through the blue heavens ; the sun shone brightly, as if conscious of the glory and goodness of its Maker, diffusing around a holy stillness and tranquillity, characteristic of the day of rest ; the majestic Frith Hashed back the sunbeams, while, on its bosom, slowly glided the winged granaries of commerce; there, too, lay its islands, glorying in their strength — the Jiay, shrouded in light, appeared as a levia- than sunning in its rays— and the giant Bass, covered with seafowl, rose as a proud mountain of alabaster in the midst of the waters. A thousimd boats lay along the shores of Dunbar. It was the herring-season — and there were many Wats from the south and from the north, and also from the coast of Holland. Now, tidings were brought to the fishermen tliat an im- mense shoal was upon the coast ; and, ri g.irdless of its b. in.; Sabbath morning, they began to prepare their thous:ui i boats, and to go out to set their nets. The Riv. Andrew Simpson, a man possessed of the piety and bohhie.-s of an apostle, was then minister'of Dunbar ; and, as he went forth to the kirk to preach to his peojile, he beheld the unhallowed preparations of the fishermen on the beacli ; and he turned and went amongst them, and reproved them sternly for their great wickedness. But the men were obdurate — tlie pro,s- pect of great gain was before them, and they nu.cked the words of the preacher. Yea, some of them said unto him, in the words of the children to the prophet — •• Go dp, thou bald head." He went from boat to boat, counselling, tn- treating, exuostuhiting with them, and praying for them. TALES OF THE BORDERS. im " Surely," saiil he, " tlie I,onl of the Sabhiith will not nold yi' piiilllegs for tliis pmnnKitinn of his holy ihiv." lint, at lli;it [leriod, vital rclifjioii was Imt little felt or uiulcrstooil ujioii the IJorilers, anil they rcj^anlrd not his words. He went to one hoat, which was the property of nienihers of his own con<;regation, and there he ibiind A^nes Craw- ford, the daufjhtcr of one of his ehlers, hanging; upon the neck of her hushand, and their three children also clun;; around him, ami they entreated him not to he puilty of breakinp; the Salihath for the sake of perishing {;ain. Hut ne repjarded not their voice ; and he kissed his wife and his cliihlren, while he lani;hed at their idle fears. Mr Simpson heheld the scene with emotion, and approachinn; the poup — 'John Crawford," he exckiimed, addressing the hushand, " you Tuay profess to mock, to laugh to scorn the words of a feeble woman; hut see that they return not like a consuming fire into your bosom when hope has dojiarted. Is not the Lord of the Sabbath the Creator of the sea as well as of the dry land ? Know yc not that yc arc now braving the wrath of Him before whom the mighty ocean is a drop, and all space but a span .' Will ye, then, glorv in insulting His ordi- nances, and delight in profaning the da}' of holiness? AVill ye draw down everlasting darkness on the Sabbath of your soul.'' When ye were but a youth, ye have listened to the words of John Knox — the great apostle of our country — ye have trembled beneath their ])Ower, and the conviction tliat tln'v carrieil with them ; and when ye think of those convic- tions, and contrast them with your conduct this day, does not the word ttposiiilc burn in your heart .' John Crawford, some of your blood have embraced the stake for the sake of the truth, and will ye profane the Sabbath which they .sanc- tified? The Scotsman who operdy glories in such a sin, for- feits bis claim to the name of one, and publishes to the world that he has no part or communion with the land that gave liim birth. John Crawford, hearken unto my voice, to the voice of yi,\^T wife, and that of your bairns, (whose bring- ing up is a credit to their mother,) and be not guilty of this gross sin." But the fisherman, while he regarded not the supplications of his wife, became sullen at the words of the preacher, and, springing into the boat, seized an oar, and, with his comrades, bi>gan to pull from the shore. The thousand lioats ]iut to sea, and INIr Simpson returned Ron'owful from the beach tT the kirk, while Agnes Crawford and her children followed him. That day be took for bis 4cxt, "Remember the Sabbath-d.ay to keep itboly;" and, as le feailessly and fervidly denounced the crime of Sabbath- breaking, and alluded to the impious proceedings of the day, his hearers trembled, but poor Agnes wept aloud, and her cliihlren clung around her, and they wept also, because she wept. But, ere the service had concluded, the heavens began to lower. Darkness fell over the congregation — and first came Ine murmur of the storm, which suddenly burst into the wild howl of the tempest. They gazed upon each other in gilent terror, like guilty spirits stricken in their first rebellion by the searching glance of the Omniscient. The loud voice of Psalms w.as abruptly bushed, and its echo mingled with the dreadful music of the elements, like the bleating of a tender lamb, in the mnd that swecpeth howling on the mountains. For a moment, their features, convulsed and immovable, were still distended with the song of praise; but every tongue was silent, every eye fixed. There was no voice, save heaven's The church seemed to rock to its foundations, but none tied — none moved. Pale, powerless as marble statues, horror transfixed tkem in the house of praver. The steeple rocked in the blast, and, as it bent, a knell, tLntolled by human hands, pealed on the ears of tlie breathless multitude. A crash followed. The spire that jlittered in the morning sun lay scattered in fragments, and itie full voice of the whirlwind roared through the aisles. The trees crouched and were stripped leafless; and the sturdy oak, whose roots had "mbraccd the e;uth for centuries, torn from the deep darkness of its foundations, was uplifted on Ibe wings of the tem|iest. Darkiu'ss was spread over the earth. Lightnings gathered together their terrors, and, clothed in the fury of their fearful majesty, (lashed through th(' air. Tlie fierce hail was poured down as clouds of \ix. .\t the awful voice of the deep thunder, the whirlwind ipiailed, and the rage of the tempest seemed spent. Nothing was now heard save the rage of the troubled sea, which, lashed into foam by the angry storm, still bel- lowed forth its white billows to the clouds, and shouted its defiance loud as the war-cry of embattled worlils. The congregation still sat mute, horrified, death-like, :us if wait- ing for the preacher to break the spell of the elements. He rose to return thanks for their preservation, and he had given out the lines — " lord, in tliy WT.-itli rplmkc me not Nor in thy Itot r.-ige cli.'Vftcn inc,*' when the screams and the howling of women and children rushing wildly along the streets, nMidered bis voice inaudible. The congregation rose, and hurrying one U[)on another, they rushed from the church. Tb<^ exhortations of the ])reacher to depart calmly were unheard and unheeded. Every seat was deserted, all rushed to the shore, and Agnes Crawford and her children ran, also, in terror, with the multitude. The wrecks of ne.irly two hundred boats were drifting among the rocks. The dead were strewed along the beach, and amongst them, wailing widows sought their husbands, children their fathers, mothers their sons, and all their kindred ; and ever and anon an additional scream of grief arose as the lifeless body of one or other such relations w.as found. A few of the lifeless bodies of the hardy crews were seen tossing to and fro ; but the cry for help was hushed, and the yell of death was beard no more. It was, in truth, a fearful day — a d.iy of lamentation, of warning, and of judgment. In one hour, and within sight of the beach, a hundred and ninety boats and their crews were whelmed in the mighty deep ; and, dwelling on the shore between Spitt.d and North Berwick, two hundred and eighty widows wept their husbands lost. The spectators were busied carrying the dead, as they were driven on shore, beyond the reach of tide-mark. They had continued their melancholy task for near an hour, when a voice exclaimed — "See! see! — one still lives, and struggles to make the shore !" All rushed to the spot from whence the voice proceeded, and a young man was perceived, with more than mortal strength, yet labouring in the whirling waves. His counte- nance was black with despair. His heart panted with suf- focating pangs. His limbs buffeted the billows in the strong agony of death, and he strained, with desperate eagerness, towards the projecting point of a black rock. It was now within his grasp, but, in its stead, he clutched the deceitful wave that laughed at his deliverance. He was whirled around it, dashed on it with violence, and again swept back by the relentless surge. He threw out his arms at random, and bis deep groans and panting breath were heard through the sea's hoarse voice. lie again reached the rock — he grasped, he clung to its tangled sides. A murmur mo.ined through the multitude. They gazed one upon another. His glazed eyes frowned darkly upon them. Supplication and scorn were mingled in his look. His lips moved, but his tongue uttered no sound. He only gasped to speak — to implore assistance. His strength gave ^^ay — ■ the waters rushed around the rock as a whirlpool. He wag again uplifted upon the white bosom of the foam, and tossed within a few yards of the wailing but unavailing crowd. " It is .John Crawford !" exclaimed those who were en- abled to recognise his features. A loud shriek followed the mention of his name — a female rushed through the crowd, and the next moment the delicate fonn of Agnes Crawford w.is seen floating on the wild sea. In an instant, a hundred J 02 TALES OF THE BOEDERS. r>Iunc;ed to lier rescue ; but, before tlie scream of horror and surprise raised by tlie spectators when tljey beheld lier devoted but desperate purpose, bad subsided, she was bevond tlie reach of all who feared death. Althou;;h no feminine amusement, Agnes had delighted in buffeting the waters from a child, as though she felt a home upon their bosom ; and now the strength of inspiration seemed to thrill through her frame. She was hidden from the gaze of the marvel- ling spectators, and a deep groan crept along the shore. She again appeared, and her fair hand grasped the shoulder of the drowning man ! A shout of wild jny rang back on the deserted town. Her father, who was amongst the multi- t;;de, fell upon his knees. He clasped his hands together — ' Merciful Heaven ! " lie exclaimed, " Thou who stillest the tempest, and boldest the waters in the hollow of Thy hand, protect — protect mv child !" The waters rioted with redoubled fiirr. Her strength seemed failing, but a smile of hope still lighted up her fea- tures, and her hand yet grasped her apparently lifeless bur- den. Despair again brooded on the countenances of her fiiends. For a moment, she disappeared amongst the waves ; but the next, Agnes Crawford lav senseless on the beach, her arm resting on the bosom of him she had snatched from a watery grave — on the bosom of her husband. They were borne to their own house, where, in a few minutes, she recovered; but her husband manifested no sign of vitality. All the means within their power, and that they knew, were resorted to, in order to effect his resuscitation. Long and anxiously she wept over him, rubbing his temples and his bosom, and, at length, beneath her hand his brea.st first began to heave with the returning pulsation of his heart. " He lives ! — he breathes !" she exclaimed, and she sank back in a state of unconsciousness, and was carried from the Tooin. The preacher attended by the bedside, where the unconscious fisherman lay, directing and assisting in the operations necessary for restoring animation. As John Crawford began to recover, the film of death that had gathered over liis eyes began to melt away, and he gazed around in bewilderment, but unconscious of where he \> as, and he sank into a troubled sleep ; and, as he so slept, and his strength returned, he cast fortli his arms, in imagina- tion yet grappling with death. He dreamed, and in his dream he shouted for help. He prayed, and in the same l.reath he lilasphemed and reviltd the trembling spectators that his troubled fancy still pictured on the beach. In a few hours the tislierman awoke from his troubled sleep, which many expected would have been the sleep of death. He raised liimself in the bid — he looked around wLstfullv. Agnes, who had recovered, and returned to the room, fell upon his bosom. " ]\Iy Agues! — my poor ^\gnes!" he cried, gazing wistfully in her face — " but, where — where ^jn 1 .' — and my bairnies, where are they .''" " Here, faither, here !" cried the children, stretching out their little arms to embrace him. Again he looked anxiously around. A recollection of the past, and a consciousness of the present, fell upon his mind. " Thank God !" he exclaimed, and burst into tears ; and when his troubled soul and his igitated bosom had found in them relief, he inquired, eagerly — " But, oh, tell me, how- was I saved? — was I cast upon the beach? There is aconfused remembrance in my brain, as though an angel grasped me when I was sinking, and held me. But mv head is con- fused, it is fearfully confused, and I remember naetliing but as a dream; save the bursting awa o' the dreadful storm, wi' the perishing o' bunders in an instant, and the awfu cry that rang frae boat to boat — ' A judgment has come owre us!' And it was a judgment indeed! O Agnes! had I listened to ver words, to the prayers o' my bits o' bairns, or the advice o' the minister, I wad hae escaped the sin that I hae this trect Hill together. I observed the night-watchmen, wlio had not left their beat, turned round, and even held up their lanterns — though the morning's light was well advanced — and examined us as we passed. As though our errand or our thoughts were the same, we proceeded towards the Park together ; and when the sun arose, he opened his portfolio, and exhibited it to me. He was an artist, and an artist, too, of high promise His portfolio contained many bold and vigorous pencil sketches, where soul, taste, and a daring hand were exemplified. He had also a num- ber of beautiful pieces in water-colours, which shewed that his touch was delicate as well as bold. I took my pencil, and wrote a few lines on the hack of one of the Bristol hoards on which one of the subjects was sketched, and the artist and I became friends. Neither of us had wherewith to purchase a breakfast ; but, in the forenoon, he had to call upon a printseller in the Strand with some of his pieces in water-colours, and we p.irted with a promise to meet again on the following day. But an accident, which I sh;dl afterwards mention, prevented me from keep- ing my engagement ; and we parted without the one know- ing the name of the other. I have not again met with him ; but, until this hour, I regret that I learned not the name of a young artist, whom I met with under such cir- cumstances, and whose productions manifested high genius, a correct taste, and a skilful hand. Now, at this period, sir, I should tell you that the greater part of the day was generally spent in attempts to sleep upon the seats in the Park ; and, dreadful as the pangs of hunger were, at length, (and this is no idle saying,) I could have been content to die beneath their rage, to have purchased but one hour ot rest and repose. The agony of hunger yields to the agony of sleep." " And do you really say. Doctor," inquired the farmer, " that ye have sufi'ered a' this in a Christian laud, even in this city ? I hardly think it possible." " Some may doubt' it," replied Robert, earnestly; " l*it the remembrance of what I have endured will live as a coal of fire in my heart for ever; and the fiftieth part of what I suffered has not been told j'ou. But, sir, before 1 proceed farther with my story, allow me to go back to another part of my history, and advert to another circum- stance. You will remember — it is more than a dozen years ago — a military gentleman, whom we generally called Colonel Forster, took up his residence on the banks of the Esk, a few miles from Longtown. He was, I believe, a Lieutenant-Colonel in the service of the East India Com- pany." " I remember him perfectly well, Mr Musgrave," said the farmer, " and know him j'et ; and, moreover, I al^o remember that ye was remarkably fond of his daughter Bertha, and that it was said that it wasna her beauty ve was in love wi', but her siller ; for the Colonel was under- stood to be a perfect Nabob, and I have heard that he for- bade you to come about the house." " Sir," continued JIusgrave — and there was a glow of indignation on his countenance — " I care not what tlie world may have s.aid, nor what they do say. The lark greetcth not the dawning of the dawn with more fervent delight than 1 first beheld the fair countenance of Bertha Forster TALES OF THE BORDERS. i'J7 I knew not tliut Iier father was rich, and, ivlien I ilid know | it, I grieved that lie v/as so. But to me she flighted her first vow, and ]iledf;i'd lier ' maiden troth ;' and, though I knew that, hv lur fiiUlUing it, I sliould take the hand of a pennih'ss bride — for it is true tliat her father threateneil to disinlierit lier if s!ie ke|it my company, and to leave all that he was possessed of to a son in India — yet I loved her the more. I loved her for herself, and our feelings were reci- procal. Ever shall I remeniher the night on which we parted, previous to my leaving Cumherhmd for this city. It was in a deep wood, near her father's house. Tiie Esk murmured by our feet, and the grey twilight fell over us. The evening-star was in the heavens; and the wood, the star, the river, and the twilight, were the witnesses of our tears and of our vows. But you are past the period of life when the recital of such things can be interesting ; and ri'spect for her whom my soul worships, forbids me to say more. Yet, although her father despised and spurned me, we parted with a promise to write to each other, with a declaration to preserve our plighted vows inviolate even unto death. It was agreed that I should send my letters to her, arf;ot Hamlet's advice. IJut, iLS the first act was concluded, |iit, boxes, and gallery hurst into a tumult of applause. I was seated in the ])it. The sweat broke upon my brow. Vanity wrought triunniliantly in my bosom. I was the greatest man in Iiondim. 'J'bf second, the third, the fourth, the fifth acts cnncluiled in the same manner. The curtain fell, and the audience shouted — ' The author ! ths author !' For this tribute of jiublic a|>probation I was not prepared. The stage-manager came to me, and still the audience in the gallery kept thundering and shouting — 'The author! the author!' lie insisted that I should appear upon the stage, and before the audi- ence. Vain as 1 was, I sickened at his words; hut be took my hand and led nu' forth. I became as a thing that moves, without a consciousness of or a power over its moving. I nad become p.ole as death. They led me to what they call the green-room, and they put rouge upon my face. But it was in vain, and the cold sweat swept it away, and left niv countenance as if covered with wounds. I was led u]ion the stage as a sheep is led to the slaughter. The lights flashed on me, and I beheld twice a thousand eyes fixed upon me. I knew not how to act. I trembled — bowed — threw my eyes in bewilderment over the multituile; but, as I was about to address them, on whom amongst that mixed assembly should my eyes fall, but on my Bertha I I started. A frenzy came upon me. I sprang towards the pit. Yet it is in vain for me to tell you, for I know not w hat 1 did. She sat in a box immediately facing me. I heard a woman's scream ; I knew it came from where she was. The multi. tude seemed rising and moving around me, and every eye was on me. But I cannot describe to j-ou what I felt or wliat I saw. I became unconscious. 1 knew oidy that I bad seen her — that she was somewhere. There was a noise hke that of many waters in mvears- Sly head went round — my eyes wore blind. When I recovered, 1 was seated in the green-room, and the actors in their strange dresses surrounded me. They endeavoured to restore me to con- sciousness, as though I had been a sickly maiden that had fainted in their arms ; and when I did recover from the sickness and insanity that came over me — ' Where — oh, where,' I cried, 'is my Bertha?' I remember not of ha^nng done so ; but I have been told that I did. You may think, sir, that I acted wildly, as a madman, or as a fool; but, before 3'ou condemn, think of what I had endured — of my recent misery, and of my vanity when shout rose on shout, and the cry from the assembled thou- sands was — ' The author ! the author !' Such changes, sir, were enough to turn a steadier head than mine." " For my part, Doctor," said Peter, " I have no notion o' plays ; I never saw one in my life, and I canna say that [ a'thegither comprehend 3'e. But let me hear about Miss Bertha." " All that I could learn concerning her was," resumed Mus- grave, " that a voung lady in the boxes had uttered a sudden scream as she beheld me and the strange bewilderment that came over me, but that she had immediately been conveyed away by her frieiuls in a coach. This only have I been able to learn. But it was slie. Though all else that took place is as a wreck upon my memory, I see her before me now as 1 at that moment beheld her ; I see still her one wild look that entered my soul, and I yet hear her heart-piercing cry, which brought delirium upon me, and rendered me dead to every other sound. But, from that night, I liave been able to hear no more concerning her. I have sought her in church and in chapel, in the theatres and in the public walks, but never again have I beheld her. Often also have I written to Cumberland ; but ray letters have remained unanswered or been returned. She has forsaken me, or she luis been compelled to forsake me ; for when I last beheld her, tier fiue still bc.imed with atfcetion, and her wild and sudden cry was the oflTspnng of an old but a still living alVcclion." " I hear, by what ye say, Doctor," rejoined the farmer " that ye are as fiind o' J\Iiss 15crtha as ever. Now, as I said to ye before, I am not certain but what I have sonielliing that yo might wish to hear, to communicate to ye ; and, before lining so, with your permission, 1 would just ;^sl; you one or two jil.iin questions. Yo have told me a gre„t deal of the miserable state ye was in after ye came to London, and I would just like to ask ye if ye are bcltir otf now, anil how and in what respect ye are so? I trust, thenfore, that ye will by no means think the r]uestIon impertinent ; for I assure you, it is for your Sidto that I ask it, and not for any grati- fi<"ition to mysel '." " Well, sir," answered the schol.ir. " to be as plain with you as 3'ou desire, 1 have shaken haiuls with privation, and left it upon the road, to form the acquaintance of those who may fi)llow me ; or, to be more plain with you, I found that literature was a good staff but a bad crutch ; and, as I began to gather my feet, I used it accordinglj'. In a word, as my name became known amongst men, my labours became more and more profitable; and, three years ago, thinking that 1 had obtained the means of doing so, I made an attempt to resume my profession as a surgeon. For man)' months, it was but an attempt, and a hopeless one, too ; but gradually practice dawned or crept upon me. I am now em])lo3-ed as well as other members of my profession are ; and, with the assistance of my literary labours, 1 look back upon the penury with which I struggled, and wish it to remain where I left it. But, though I have known something of the moonshine of fiime as it has scattered its ra3's upon my head, and felt also the influence of the warmer beams of profit as I began to bask in the sun of popularity, yet there was and there is one dark and unsunned spot in my heart — and that is, the remembrance of my Bertha. Still docs imagination conjure up her sudden glance, her one wild cry and look of agony, as I came forward to receive the plaudits of the multitude, when, as the ba3'-leaves were circling my brow, the prickly brier was rudely drawn across my bosom." '' Well, Doctor," said Peter, " ye have not just spoken so plain as I could have wished ; but, I dare to say, that I com- prehend ye. When 30 eat a meal now, ye ken where the next is to come from ; and if ]\Iiss Bertha still thinks o' ye, and were to gie j-ou her hand, there would be no likelihood o' her being brought in contact with the privations with which ye have manfull3- struggled, and which, I am happy to hear, (and, I may sa3-, more happ3' to perceive — for a per- son's own eyes are excellent witnesses,) ye have overcome. Now, sir, hearken to me, for I have something to tell 3-6. I had iJways a sort of liking for ye, Doctor ; and though I did see ye foolish and stupid in mim3- things, yet I was sorry for ye, and I said 1 believed that ye was a lad o' real genius, and of a right heart at the bottom. i\Iore than that, I said, that, if ye minded your hand, 3-6 would be heard tell of in the world — and I have not been mistaken ; for, even down in Cuuiberland, we have seen your name in the papers ; and a hundred times have I s;iid to my neighbours — ' I always told 3'e that lad would rise to something.' But now, sir — now to the main subject, the one in which you will feel the greatest interest. Ye say that 3'e again and again wrote to Jliss Bertha to Cumberland, and never got an answer. J. am in no way surprised at that at all ; and for this simple reason, that old Colonel Forstcr left Eskside five years ago, and went to reside near a place the3' call Elstree, about ten miles from tliis city. Now, the way in which I am acquainted with the circumstance is this: — About a 3'ear after ye left, the old Nabob, as we used to ca' him, bought the farm that I rented, and became n'y landlord. Therefore, when he came to live in this quarter, I had to send my rents here. But sir, he understands that I am in London — for I jxist 2O0 TALES OF THE BORDET^S. handed liirn my rent, beinp; here, the other day — and he nas in^-ited me to dine >vi' him at his house to-morrow. Xow, sir, if ye hae nae objections, I will just tak you out wi' me as an old friend; and if ye're not made welcome, I shall not be welcome either. So, say the word — will ye go V''i' me, or will ye not ?" " I will — yes, yes, I will !" answered Sir Jlusgrave, eagerly. " AN'ell, well," said Peter, " there need he no more about it, then — say that I meet you at this house to-nioiTow at two o'clock." " Agreed," replied the other. " But," returned Peter, " there is one thing I forgot to tell ye, and that is, that I understand Jliss Bertha is on the eve of being married, and highly married, too, they say wi' us. Therefore, ye will not be surprised if ye find your former acquaintance forgotten, or seemingly forgotten, which, in sach matters, amounts to somewhat about the same thing." On the following day, IMr Peter Liddell and Robert Musgrave entered a cab in Fleet Street together, and proceeded towards Elstree. " Now," said Peter, as they approached the residence of his landlord, " I believe that I may be running my head against a wall ; for I am well aware that the old Colonel never liked ye. You are one who would be unwelcome at any time, but doubly so at a time like this, when his iaughter is on the point of being married. But I will tell ye what it is — I am just as independent as he is. I am as able to live without the help o" the landlord, as the land- lord is to live without the help o' the tenant. Therefore, if he puts down his brows at you when we are introduced, 1 will shew him the back o' my coat, and so good day to him." " I believe, then," said Musgrave, '■'that with him I shall be no welcome guest ; but, if Bertha welcome me, it is enough. You have spoken to me of her intended marriage —be it so. If she has forgotten me, i'" she has ceased to care for me, I will look upon her and biess her, in remem- brance of days which have passed away as the shadow of a cloud passeth over the earth. But with that blessing hope will depart ; for, sir, it was the remembrance of her that sustained me in all my struggles. It was the hope that she might, would one day be mine, that induced mc to liope against hope, to wrestle with despair. For her sake only have I sought for fame, as a miser would seek after hidden treasure ; and when it began to throw its light and its sunniness over me, she was the flower that rendered sunlight beautiful — for what is there lovely in light, but as a thing which maketh the face of the earth fair to look upon ?" They drew up at the door of the Colonel's residence, and ■were ushered into a room where he and a party of his friends sat. Peter, who was what people in the south ■would call a 'cute man, was beginning to make an apology, saying — " I beg your pardon. Colonel, for the liberty I have taken ; but meeting with my old friend, Doctor i\Iusgrave, yester- day, I prevailed on him to come out wi' me, as we were a' Cumberland folk together ; and, though he is a gieat man now" But, while Peter spoke, one of the company started forward. He grasped our hero by the hand, and ex- claimed — " My deliverer ! Long and anxiously have I sought for you ; but, until this hour, nothing have I been able to learn respecting you. Father," he added, " this is the gentleman of whom a hundred times you have heard me speak, as having, at the peril of his own life, saved mine. I have never known or met him again until now. Thank him >»-ith me." And, as he spoke, he held the Doctor's hand •etween his I The old man rose, lie evidently laboured to speak to the stranger; but other feelings obtained the mastery. He stretched out his hand. He touched Robert Musgrave's — he coldly bowed to him. The blood left his face. " Father," exclaimed the son. " you are ill. Hath gra- titude" But he pauspd as he beheld the expression of his father's features. They betrayed anger and agony al the same moment. " Son," said he, " I would bpeak with you : that man — that man," and he pointed to the scholar impatiently ; and, beckoning to his son, rose to leave the room. " Sir," said Mil^grave, proudly, " if my presence trouble you. 1 can withdraw." " iMy friend, what mean you? — what means my father?" asked the brother of Bertha, who was, indeed, the same individual that the scholar had rescued. " I dinna ken," answered Peter Liddell ; " but, if Doctor Musgrave go to the door, I go to the door too." The father and the son looked at each other. The ghince of the latter sought from the former an explanation. At that instant, the door opened, and the much talked of Bertha entered the room. " Bertha !" exclaimed Mustrrave, and stepped forward, as if unconscious of what he did. " Robert !" she rejoined, clasping her hands together. She started — she fell back — her brother supportea her in his arms. " Bertha ! — father ! — friend I" he exclaimed, hastily glancing to each as he spoke, " what means this ?" A man of middle age rose, and as he hurried from the room, said — " Farewell, Forster," addressing the old man — " vou have deceived, vou have insulted me. The man who is to be your daughter's husband is with her now." It was the intended husband of Bertha that so spoKe. and left the apartment. The old Colonel rose to follow him. " Stay, father," said his son — " what I have now witnessed requires an explanation. This stranger, to whom I owe my life, you have seen before — mv sister has seen him — and there is something connected with your acquaintance with each other that 1 must understand." " Yes," cried the old man, " 1 have seen him before — I have — I have." " Bertha?" said his son; but she raised her hands before her face and wept. " Sir," said the younger Forster, " I can be grateful. Though I am not acquainted with you, mv sister is. Let me call my deliverer brother.'" And he took the hand of his weeping sister and placed in that of Ruber' Jlusgrave. The old man started ; but liis son soothed him. And Robert Musgrave stood with the hand of Bertha Forster locked in bis ; and within a few weeks he called that hand his own, and was happy — and the sufferings that the Poor Scholar had endured became as a tale that is told W I L S O N^S JDifilovical, aTraDitionary, anU Imasiiiatibe TALES OF THE BORDERS THE rillST AND SECOND MAIUIIAGE. '■ I BEO your pardon, sir," said a venorable-lookinp, wliite- headed man, accosting me one day, al)out six voeks ago, as [ was walking alone near the banks of the AVhitadder ; '^e are the author of the 'Border Tales,' sir — are ye not ?" Not being aware of anything in the "Tales of the Borders" of which I need to be ashamed, and moreover being accus- tomed to meet with such salutations, after glancing at the stranger, with the intention, I believe, of taking the measure of his mind, or scrutinizing his motive in asking the ques- tion, I answered — " I am, sir." " Then, sir," said he, " I can tell ye a true story, and one that happened upon the Borders here within my recollection, •and which was aKo within my own knowledge, which I think would make a capital tale." Now, I always rejoice in hearing any tale or legend from the lips of a grey-haired chronicler. 1 do not recollect the period when I did not take an interest in such things ; and a tradition of the olden time, or a tale that pictured human nature as it is, ever made the unceasing birr, birring of the spinning-wheel — which the foot, belike, of an aged widow kept in perpetual motion — as agreeable to me as the choicest music. For what is tradition but the fragments which History left or lost in its progress to eternity; and which Poetry, following in its wake, gathered up as treasures too precious to be overwhelmed by the approaching waves of oblivion, and, breathing upon t.iem the influence of its own immortal spirit, emb.almed them in the hearts and in the memories of men unto all generations ? Though, therefore, it was no ancient legend which the stranger had to relate, yet, knowing that it might not on that account be the less interesting, I thanked him, "and with greedy ears devoured up his discourse." The story which ho then related to me, I shall, therefore, after him, communicate to my readers. You will excuse me in not mentioning the name of the town in which the chief incidents mentioned in our story occurred. There may be some yet living to whom some of them might not be agreeable. I shall, therefore, speak if it as the town of H , and other circumstances referred to may lead you to form an idea of " its whca'eabouts." JIany j'ears have passed — at least forty — since the period at which our story commences ; .and there then dwelt in the town of II one Walter Kerr. (So you will allow me to call him.) His parents were what are generally called respectable sort of people ; for the house in which they dwelt was their o>vn, and there were also three or four others, all very good and respectable-looking houses, (as we say again,) the rents of which they received from their tenants. But, there is no word in our language to which less respect is shewn than the word respectability. It is prostituted every day. It is no matter whether a man be the proprietor of one house, one acre, one pound, or a hundred houses, a thou- wnd acres, and ten thousand pounds; neither houses, acres, nor money can make him truly respectable. As the sun, moon, and stars, shed light upon the earth, so do honesty, virtue, and strict integrity confer respectability on the head of their possessor. I care not what a man's situation in life 26. Vol I. may be, nor whether he be a hewer of wood or a drawer of water, the lord of a forest, or one who hath a fleet upon the seas: shew me a good, a virtuous, and an upright man — and there is a rospectalile man, be his rank or situation in life what it may. The parents of Walter Kerr, however, were respect- able in a better and a truer sense of the term than that of being merely persons of a cert.ain property: they were Chris- tains not only in their profession but in their practice. Walter was by far the cleverest of the family; and from his boyhood his parents designed him fo.' the pulpit, and gave him an education accordingly. Like many parents, they thought that his cleverness was a sufficient reason why they should bring him up to the sacred profession, without once considering how far the seriousness of his thoughts and habits fitted him for preparing for the office. It must be acknowledged, however, that in this they were not singular. We find hundreds who, without perceiving either cleverness or piety in their favourite son, resolye to make him a minis- ter. Yea, frequently, from his very cradle his calling is determined. 1 remember having heard a good woman say — ''If I live to have another son, and he hi spared to me, I shall bring him up for the kirk !" But the parents of Walter Kerr were possessed of more discretion; and when they found that he was averse to their proposiJ of his becoming a preacher, they abandoned the idea, though not without reluctance, and some tears on the part of his mother. Now, AV'alter was a youth of a gentle tem- per and an affectionate heart; but, at the same time, he seemed formed for being what you would term a man of bu.si- ncss. He wasshrewd,active,speculative,and calculating, wth quite a sufficient degree of caution, as ballast, to regulate his more ardent propensities. At his own request, he was bound apprentice to a general merchant in his native town ; and before he was twenty-one ycarsof age, be commenced business for himself. He began with but a small stock in trade; for his parents could not afford a great deal to set him up. Yet he was attentive to business ; he pushed it, and his trade increased, and his stock became more various. Hehad scarcely, however, been two years in business, when he took unto him- self a portionless wife. His parents were displeased — they looked upon him as lost. Every one said that he had done a foolish thing, ard agreed that it was madness in him to marry, at least so hastily, and before he could say that even the goods in his shop were his own. But people are very apt to talk a gi-eat deal of nonsense upon this subject. The important question is not uhen a man m.arrics, but irhci hemar- ries. They talk of a wife tying up his hands, and placing a barrier before his prospects ; in short, as bringing a blight over his worldly expectations, like an untimely frost nipping and withering an opening bud. Now, all this is mere twad- dle — a shewing oil of self-wisdom, to make known how much more wisely we have or would have acted than the person referred to. It is one of the thousand popular iiilla- cies which ever float on the surface of the chit-chat of so- ciety. A married man. young or old, is always a more spon- sible sort of character than a bachelor. If a man take unto himself an amiable and a prudent wife, even though she bring him not a shilling as a dowry, and although he may be joung in years and a beginner in business, he doeUi 202 TALES OF THE BORDEES. well. Had he doubijid his stock, his credit, and his custom,' he would not have done better ; for he has a double motive to do so. He has found one to bcfjuile his dulness, to soothe care, to cheer him forward, and to stimulate him to! exertion ; and that, too, tenderly as the breath of May fan-' neth and kissefh the young leaves and flowers into life and beauty. But all this dependeth, as hath been said, upon her amiableness and prudence ; for, if the wife whom a man laketh for " better for worse," possess not these indispensa- ble requisites, he weddeth a living sorrow, he nurseth an adder in his bosora, he giveth his right hand to ruin. Now, the Avife of Walter Kerr possessed those qualities which rendereth .a virtuous woman as a cro^vn of glory to her husband. She was the daughter of a decayed farmer, and her name was Hannah .Jerdan. To her the misfortunes of her parents were not such ; for, while they had made her a stranger to luxury, they had introduced her to the acquaint- anceship of frugality and industry. At the time she gave her hand to Walter KeiT, she was scarce twenty; and to have looked on her, you would have thouglit of some fair and lovely flower which sought the sequestered dale or the shaded glen, where its beauties might blush unseen — young, modest, meek, aff'ectionate, and beautiful, man never led a lovelier bride to the altar. Her husband soon found that whatever the world might think or say of the step he had taken, he had done well and wisely. She not only became his assist- ant in his business, and one who took much care and anxiety from his mind, cut her affection fell upon his bosom like the shadow of an angel's wing, that was spread over him to guard him fromevil; and he found her, too, as a monitor whispering truth in the accents of love. If he acquired money in trade, she taught him how to keep it and profit by it — and that is a ' secret worth knowing." Let it not be supposed that she w.as one of those miserly beings who scrape farthings toge- ther for the sake of hoarding them. In her spirit, meanness had no place ; but there were two proverbs which she never suffered herself to forget, or those around her to neglect, and those were, that "apcnny saved is a penny gained," and" wil- ful waste makes woful want." Nor do I wonder that the latter saying took deep root in her heart ; for, as having experienced privation in the davs of her father's distress, there is nothing can be more painful to those who have known and felt what want is, than to see food, for want of which they were once ready to perish, wasted ; and that, too, perchance, while a hunger- stricken beggar has been turned rudely from the door while he prayed for a morsel to eat. She would not see the ci"umbs which fell from the table wasted. In this her husband rea- dily perceived the propriety of her conduct, and he esteemed her the more as he witnessed it ; but the force of her first adage, that " a penny saved is a penny gained," he was slow to appreciate in its true light. Yet for this, perhaps, there was a reason. Previous to his marriage, he had been in the habit of spending the evening, after business hours, with a club of young tradesmen and other acquaintances. Now, habit is the pettiest and the most imperious of all tyrants. Even A\ith a pinch of snutf it can make you its slave. It renders you miserable, until you once more bend the knee before it. But, as I have said, habit, though an im- perious, is a petty tyrant; and three weeks' resolution, though you will have struggles to encounter, will enable you to snap asunder the strongest chain that ever habit forged. I do not mean the habits the seeds of which we acquire in infancy, and which grow with our gi-owth and strengthen with our strength, and which, in fact, perform a part of our educa- tion, (though we do not admit it,) until they are set down as things belonging to or ingrafted in our natures ; but I mean the habits which we acquire in after-life. And, as has been stated, Walter Kerr had acquired a habit of attending an evening club, of which he had been a member during the last year of his apprenticeship; and, from the period that he commenced busiaess up to his marriage, and a few d.nys after he had brought home his wife, he attended the club a» usual. He was happy in the society of his young and fail wife; but still, (as we savin the north,) there was a " craik- ing" within him for something to make him perfectlv happv, and that " craiking" was to attend the club as usual. Now, it was not a club in which they either drank deep or sat lite — for it was a regulation amongst them that no man shoidd sit in the club-room after ten o'clock, or drink more than three glasses; but, although they had this wholesome regu- lation, they had no by-law against what many of them called " adjournmcjits," or " sederunls" and at which, though out of tlie club-room, the three glasses frequently became six. With regard to the " sederunts," however, Hannah had no cause to complain of her husband ; for he never had been one of those who formed them. Neither did she murmur, oi consider herself neglected, on account of his attending ths club; for she reasoned with herself, that, after the cares, toils, and business of the day, he required some relaxation ; and although her company might be more agreeable to him than any other, yet she knew that the beauty and the fragrance of a flower does not increase by for ever locking upon it and on it onl}-, but that our admiration of the flower increases, as we pass over the weeds which we behold around us. Yet, she thought that everv night was too much — more than relaxation required ; and she thought, also, that a shil- ling a-night was six shillings in the week, (for let it not be thought that a club of which Walter Kerr was a member, met on the Sabbath,) and that six shillings a- week was nearly sixteen pounds in the year — a sum that might frequently be of use when accounts became due, and money was difficult to get in. She therefore delicately- and tenderly endeavoured to break her husband from the habit he iiad acquired ; but she attempted it in vain. He believed himself to be one of the most frugal and industrious tradesmen in the town; anil nothing but bringing the fact plainly and broadly before him, seemed sufficient to convince him that there was aught of ex- pensiveness in his habits. But his wife, more delicately and efficiently, did so convince him. They were talking toge- ther of many things, and their conversation lent wings to the short hours, when, an opportunity offering, she related to him an anecdote, which brought home to himself his nightly at- tendance at the club : and, as I know the story to be no alle- gory, nor child of the brain, but a fact, I shall relate it to you. " In a town," said she, "not many miles south of the Border, there dwelt a man who was by trade a mechanic, and who was the father of seven children. For sixteen years he had never wanted eniplovment, (when he chose to work,) and his earnings averaged from five-and-thirty shil- lings to two pounds a-week. But, with a number of asso- ciates, he was in the habit of attending, daily and nightly, what they termed their hotise of call. In the morning, as he went to his labour, he could not pass it without ha>-Ln2 what he called his ' nipper,' or what some of the good people in Scotland call their ' morning' which, being in- terpreted, meaneth a glass of gin, rum, or whisky." (For gen- tle as Hannah was, there was a sprinkling of the wag in her character.) " At midday," she added, " he had to give it another call ; and to pass it on returning from his work at night was out of the question. Sometimes, and not unfre- quently, when he called in for his ' nipper' in the morn- ing, he sat do^vn — in a room which had t(vo windo^vs, look- uig east and west — and forgot to rise until, after he had seen from the one window the sun rising, he beheld it set from the other. But it was the force of habit — it had grown in upon him, as he said ; and what could the poor man do ? He beheld his 'wife broken-hearted, going almost in rags and their aflection had changed into bickerings and re- proaches. His children, too, were half-starved, ill-clad, and unschooled; and for what education they got, he thought not of paring the schoolmaster — he felt nothing in hand for his monej', and therefore could not see the force of the debt. TALES OF THE BORDERS. 2(n l^ut tlip ponr man coulii not )ic!p it. It was trm- lie o.-irncd alK)ut twi) pounds a-wcfk, Ijut ^vliii'li \v;iv the nmiicy >vciit he could not tell. He did not, as lie tlionglit, deserve the rppronches of his wife. His ' niorninf;' was only fourpence, his rail at n\id(h'y the s;une, and his evening pipe and plass a shUlinfj or eiL;hte<'n-j)enee — that, he thoufiht, was nothint; for a man workiiij; so hanl as he diil ; and wlien he did take a dav now and (hen, lie said that was not worth reckoninp;, for his elay coiiKl not keep toj^ether williout moisture ; and IS for the glass or two which he took on a Sunday, why, they were not worth mentioning. 'Ihiis he could see no cause for the unh.i]ipiiiess of his wife, the poveity of his house, and (he half-nakedness of his family, lie had to " do as other people did, or ho might leave their society;" and he attributed all to had management somewhere, hut not on his fiart. But one Sunday nioniing he had lingered in their lOUsc of call longer tlian his conipanir.ns, and he was silting there when the ehurehwardens and ]iansli-oflieers went their rounds, and came to the house. To conceal him fruni them there, and avoid the penalty — " ' Tom,' said the landlady ' here he the wardens a-comin'. If they find thee liere, lad, or meet thee goin' out, thou wilt 1)0 fined, and me too ; and it may give my hoose a had name. Coom up st;iirs, and I will shew thee through the hoose, while they examine the tap and the parlour.' ' So saying, Tom the mechanic followed the hostess from room to room, wondering at what he .saw; for the furniture, as he Siiid to himself, was like a nohleman's, and he mar- velled how such things could he ; and while he did so, he contrasted the splendour he helield around him with the poverty and WTetchedness of his own garret. And, after shewing him through several rooms, she at last, with a look of importance, ushered him into what she colled tJie drarv- ingrooni — hut, now-,i-days, drawiiigrooms have become as common as gooseberries, and every house with three rooms and a kitchen has one. Poor Tom the mechanic was amazed .is he beheld the richly-coloured and fancy-figured car]iet; he was afraid to tread on it — and indeed he was told to clean his feet well before he did so. But he was more astonished when lie beheld a splendid mirror, with a brightly gilded and carved frame, which reached almost from the ceiling to the floor, and in which he beheld his person, covered i\itli his worn-out and un-holiday-like habiliments, from top to toe, though they were his only suit. Yet more was he amazed, when the ostentatious mistress of the house, 0])ening what appeared to him a door in the wall, displayed to him rows of shining silver plate. lie raised his eyes, he lifted up his hands — 'Lack! l\Iu'am !' says he, 'how d'ye get all these mighty fine things.' ''And the landlady, laughing at his simplicity, said — ' Why, lad, by fools' pennies to be sure.' " But the words ' fools' pennies' touched his heart as if a sharp instrument had pierced it; and he thought unto him- self, ' I am one of those fools ;' and he turned aw ay and left the house with the words written upon his conscience ; and, as he went, he made a vow unto himself, that, until that day twelve months, ho would neither enter the house he had left, nor any other house of a similar description — but that on that day twelve months he would visit it again. When he Went home, his wife was surprised at his home-coming; for it was seldom he returned during the day. lie had two shillings h'ft; and taking them from his pocket, he gave them to one of his daughters, desiring her to go out and purchase a qu.artern loaf and a quantity of tea, sugar, and butter. His wife was silent from wonder. He took her hand and Slid — ' Why, thou seemest to wonder at me, old la.ss ; but I tell thee what — I li.ive had a lesson this mornin' that I iliiai't forget ; and when thou findest me throwing away even a pcnnv again, I will gi\e thee liberty to call me by any luiioe thou likes.' I •■ 1 1 is nilc was astonished, and his family were astonished; | and in the afternoon he took down the neglected and dust covered Bilile, and rerwl a chapter aloud ; though ceri.ainlv not from iiny correct religions feeling. But he liad formed the resolution to reform, and he had learned enough to know that reading his Bible was a neress.ary and excellent helper towards the aeeoniplishiiieiit of his iiur])OS(s It was the happiest Sabbath his family li.id ever spent ; and his wifi; said that, even on her wediliiig Sunday, she was not half so li.-ippv. " But, the . whileshe partook of it, repented because of her extravagance, and because of her cruelty to those from whose bounty sh« was now fed. Jacobini went with her husband and her father-in-law to India, where in a few years a happy family gamboled around them, and Francis increased in wealth, but lived a bachelor, and left his property to his sister't children. SV J L S O N'8 TALES OF THE BORDERS THE GUIDWIFE OF COLDINGIIAM ; THE SURPRISE OF FAST CASTLE. Nkar where St Abb stretches in massive strength into the soa, still terrible, even in ruins, mav be seen the remains of Fast Castle, one of the most interesting in its history— as it IS the most t'earlully romantic in its situation — of all the mouldering stronghohls wliieh are still to be traced among the IJorders, like monuments of war, crumbling intonothing- ness beneath the silent but destroying touch of time. After the death of the blutV Harry the Eighth of England, who had long kept many of the corruptililo amongst the Scottish nobility and gentry in his pay, the ambitious Somerset, suc- ceeding to the othce of guardian of the j'oung king, speedily, under the name of Protector, acquired an authority nothing inferior to the power of an absolute monarch. He had not long held the reins of government when he rendered 't evident that it was a part of his ambition to subdue .-cotland, or the better portion of it, into a mere province of England. The then governor of Scotland, Hamilton, Earl ot Arran, 'for Queen Slary was but a cliild,) was not ignorant of the designs of Somerset, and every preparation was made to repel liim on his crossing the Borders. It was drawing towards evening on the first of September 15 17- when the Protector, at the head of an army of eighteen thousand men, arrived at Berwick ; and nearly at the same instant, while the gloaming yet lay light and thin upon the sea, a fleet, con- fisting of thirty-four vessels of war, thirty transports, and a gallev, were observed sailing round Emmanuel's head — the most eastern point of Holy Island. On the moment that the fleet was perceived, St Abb's lighted up its fires, throw- ing a long line of light along the darkening sea, from the olack shore to the far horizon : and scarce had the first llame of its alarm-fire waved in the wind, till the Dow Hill repeated the fiery signal ; and, in a few minutes, Domilaw, Dumprender, and Arthur's Scat, exhibited tops of fire as the night fell down on them, bearing the tidings, as if lightnings living on dilfcrent courses revealed them through Berwick- shire and the Lothians, and enabling Roxburghshire and Fife to read the tale ; while Binning's Craig, repeating the telegraphic fire, startled the burghers of Linlithgow on the one hand, and on the other aroused the men of Lanark- shire. Before, therefore, the vessels had arrived in the bay, or the Protector's army had encamped in the Magdalen Fields aroui;d Berwick — Berwickshire, Roxburgh, the Lothians, Fife, and Lanark, were in arms. The cry from the hills and in the clcns was, " The enemy is come ! — the English 1 — to arms!" The shepherd drove his flocks to the inaccessible places in the mountains ; he threw down his crook and grasped his Epear. 2"? 'v'ui.. I At the same time that Somerset crr)ssed the Borders on the east, the Earl of Lenmix, who, from disappointed ambi- tion, had proved false to his country, entered it at the head of another English armv to the west. But 1 mean not to write a history of Sumersct s invasion — of the plausible jiroposals which he made, and which were rejected — nor of the advantages which the Scots, through recklessness or want of discipline. Hung away, and of the disasters which followed. All the places of strength upon the Borders fell into his hands, and he garrisoned them from his army, and set governors over them. The first place ot his attack was Fast Castle ; in which, after taking possession of it, lie left a governor and strong garrison, composed of English troops and foreign mercenaries, causing also the people around, for their own safetv, to take to him an oath of fealtv, renouncing their allegiance to the young queen. But while there were many who obeved his command with re- luctance, there were others who chose rather to endanger or forfeit their lives and property than comply with it. It had not, however, been two years in the hands of the English, when, by a daring and desperate act of courage, it was wrested from them. A decree went forth from the English governor of tne Castle, commanding them to bring into it, from time to time, all necessary provisions for the use of the garrison, for which they should receive broad money in return ; for Somerset and his chief officers — the Lord Grev and others — had caused it to be published, that thev considered the inhabitants of that part of Scotland as the subjects of young Edward, in commoD with themselves, and not as a people with whom thev were at war, or from whom their soldiers might collect provisions and pay them with the sword. The English, indeed, paid liberally for whatsoever thev received ; and there was policy in their so doing, for there were not a few who preferred lucre to their country, and the effigy of a prince upon a coin to allegiance to their lawful monarch. But, while such obeyed with alacrity the command of the governor of Fast Castle to bring provisions to his gar- rison, there were many others who acquiesced in it reluc- tantly, and only obeyed from the consciousness that disobe- dience would be the price of their lives. At this period, there dwelt in Coldingham a widow named JIadge Gordon. She was a tall and powerful woman, arnl her years might be a little below fifty. Daily she indulged in invectives against the English, and spoke contemptuously of the spirit of her countrymen, in submitting to the man- date of the governor of Fast Castle. She had two ccws and more than a score of poultry; but she declartd that she would s]iill the milk of the one upon the ground every day, and throw the eggs of the other over the cliffs, rather than that either the one or the other should be taken throu^'L the gates of the Castle while an English garrison held it. Often, therefore, as Madge behold her neighbours carry- ing their baskets ou their arras, their creeb or sr.cks ur'^n 210 TALES OF THE BORDERS. thoir backs, or driving their horses, larlen with provisions, towards the Castle, her wrath would rise ie;ainst them, and she was wont to exclaim — '• ye slaves! — ye base loun-heartcd lieasts o' burden! — hoo lang will ye boo before the hand that strikes ye, or kiss the foot that tramples on ye ? Throw doun the pro- visions, and gang hame and bring what they better deserve — for, if ye will gie them bread, feed them on the point o' yer fuithcrs' spears." Some la'jghed as Madge spoke ; but her words sank deep into the hearts of others ; and a few answered — " Ye are as daft as ever, Jladge — but a haverel woman's tongue is nae scandal, and ye ken that the governor winna tak cognizance o' ye." " Me ken or care for him, ye spiritless coofs, ye !" she replied ; " gae tell him that Madge Gordon defies him and a' his men, as she despises you, and wad shake the dirt frae her shoon at baith the ane and the other o' ye. Shame fa' ye, ye degenerate, mongrel race ! for, if ye had ae drap o' the bluid o' the men in yer veins wha bled wi' Wallace nnd wi' Bruce, before the sun gaed doun, the flag o' bonny Scotland wad wave frae the Castle towers." " Mother ! mother !" said an interesting-looking girl of nineteen, who had come to the door as the voice of Madge waxed louder and more bitter — " dinna talk foolishly — ye will bring us a' into trouble." " Trouble ! ye silly lassie, ye !" rejoined Madge ; " these are times indeed to talk o' the like o' us being brought into trouble, when our puir bluiding country is groaning ben-eath the yoke o' an enemy, and we see them harrying us not only oot o' hoose and ha', hut even those that should be our pro- tectors oot o' their manhood ! See," added she, " do ye see wha yon is, skulking as far as he can get frae our door wi' the weel-fiUed sack upon his shouthers .'' It is yer ain dearie, Florence Wilson ! O the betrayer o' his country ! — He's a coward, Janet, like the rest o' them, and shall ne'er ca' ye his wife while I live to ca' 3'e daughter." " O mother !" added the maiden, in a low and agitated voice — " what could poor Florence do .'' It isna wi' a man body as it is wi' the like o' us. If he didna do as the lave do, he wad be informed against, and he maun obey or die !" " Let him die, then, as a man, as a Scotchman !" said the stern Guidwife of Coldingham. Florence Wilson, of whom Madge had spoken, was a young man of three or four and twenty, and who then held, ns his fathers had done before him, sheep-lands under the house of Home. He was one of those who obeyed reluc- tantly the command of the governor to bring provisions to the garrison ; and, until the day on which Bladge beheld him with the sack upon iiis shoulders, he had resisted doing so. But traitors had whispered the tale of his stubbornness and discontent in the Castle ; and, in order to save himself and his flocks, he that day took a part of his substance to the garrisoru He had long been the accepted of Janet Gordon ; and the troubles of the times alone prevented tlicm, as the phrase went, from " commencing house together." He well knew the fierce and daring jiatriotisra of his intended mother-in-law, and he took a circuitous route, in order to avoid passing her door laden with a burden of provisions for the enemy. But, as has been told, she perceived him. In the evening, Florence paid his nightly visit to Janet. " Out ! out ! ye traitor !" cried Madge, as she beheld him crossing her threshold; " the shadow o' a coward shall ne'er fall on my floor while I hae a hand to prevent it." " I'm nae coward, guidwife," retorted Florence indig- nantly. •' Nae coward !" she rejoined ; " what are ye, then f Did not I, this very day, wi' my ain ecn behold yc skulking and carrying provisions to the cuemy !" " Ye mignt," said Florence — " but ae m^n canna tak a castle, nor drive frae it five hundred enemies. Bide ye yei Foolliardv courage isna manhood ; and, h;id mair prudence and caution, and less confidence, been exercised bv our armv last year, we wouldna hae this dav to mourn owre the battle o' Pinkie. I tell ye, therefore, again, just bide ve vet." " Come in, Florence," said Madge ; " draw in a seat and sit doun, and tell me what ye mean." " Hoots, Florence," said Janet, in a tone partaking of reproach and alarm, " are ye gaun to be as daft as mv mother ? What matters it to us wha's king or ^^hH's queen ? — it will be lang or either the ane or the ither o" them do onvthing for us. When ye see lords and gentry in the pav o' England, and takin its part, what can the like o' you or my mother do ?" " Do ! ve chicken-hearted trembler at ver ain shadow !" interrupted jMadge — " though somewhat past its best, I hae an arm as strong and healthy as iiie best o' them, and the blood that runs in it is as guid as the proudest o' them." Now, the maiden name of Madge was Home ; and when her pride was touched, it was her habit to run over the genealogical tree of her father's family, which she could illustrate upon her fingers, beginning, on all occasions — " I am, and so is every Home in Berwickshire, descended frae the Saxon kings o' England and the first Earls 0' Northum- berland." Thus did she run on, tracing their descent from Crinan, chief of the Saxons in the north of England, to Mal- dredus his son, who married Algatha, daughter of Uthred. prince of Northumberland, and granddaughter of Ethelrid, king of England; and from Maldredus to his son Cospatrick, of whose power William the Conqueror became jealous, and who was, therefore, forced to fly into Scotland in the year 1071, where j\Ialculm Canmore bestowed on him the manor of Dunbar, and many baronies in Berwickshire. Thus did she notice three other Cospatricks, famous and mighty men in their day, each succeeding Cospatrick, the son of his pre- decessor ; and after them a \Valdre\'e, and !> Patrick, whose son William marrying his cousin, he obtained ^vith her the lands of Home., and, assuming the name, they became the founders of the clan. From the offspring of the cousin, the male of whom took the name of Sir William Home, and from him through eleven otlier successors, down to George, the fourth Lord Home, who had fallen while repelling the invasion of Somerset a few months before, did Madge trace the roots, shoots, and branches of her family, carrying it back through a period of more than six hundred years ; and she glowed, therefore, with true aristocratic indignation at the remark of her daughter to Florence — " What can the like o' you or my mother do .''" And she concluded her description of her genealogical tree, by saying — " Talk n(n> the like o' yer mother, hizzy !" " Aweel, mother," said Janet mildly — " that may a' be , but there is nae cause for you fleeing into a tift upon the matter, for nae harm was meant. I only dinna wish Fli rence to be putting his life in jeopardy for neither end nor purpose. I'm sure I wish that oor nobility would keep ti» their bargain, nnd allow the queen, thougli she is but a las- sie yet, to be married to young King Edward, and then we, might hae peace in the land, and ither folk would be mar- ried as weel as them." " \Ve shall be married, Janet, my doo," said Florence,' gazing on her tenderly — " only ye bide a wee." Now, it must not be thought that Janet loved her country less than did her mother or her betrotbetl husband ; but, while the land of blue mountains was dear to her heart, Florence Wilson was yet more dear; and it was only because they were associated with thoughts of him that they became as a living thing, as a voice and as music in her bosom For, wlience coines our fondness for the woods, the mountains, the rivers of nativity, but from the fond remembrances which tlicir associations conjure i;p, and the visions which they recall u> I TALES OF THE BOllDERS. an tlie momnry oi tliosp wlio were dear to us, Imt who are now far from us, or with tlic (l<'ad ? We inav liavc scrn more stupendous mountains, nobler rivers, and more stalely woods — but they were not ours! They were not the mountains, the rivers, and tlu^ woods, hy whieh wc played in childhood, formed first friendships, or hreathod love's tender tale in the ear of lier who was beautiful as tlie young moon or the tveninf; star, which hung over us like smiles of heaven ; nor were thvy the mountains, the woods, and the rivers, near which our kindred, the tlesh of our ilesh, and the bone of our bone, si.kup I But I digress. " Tell me, Florence," said JIadge, " what mi'an ye by ' bide a wee ?' Is there a concerted project amongst ony o' ye, an' are ye waiting for an opportunity to carry it into effect ?" " No," answered he, " I canna say as how we hae de- vised ony practicable scheme o'owreooming our oppressors as yet ; but there are liundreds o' us ready to draw our swords un' strike, on the slightest chance o' success otTering — and tlie chance may come." " An' amongst the hundreds o' hands ye speak o'," re- turned JMadge, " is there no a single head that can plot an' devise a plan to owrecome an' drive our persecutors frac the Castle ?" " I doot it — at least I hae ne'er heard ony feasible-like plan proposed," said Florence, sorrowfully. Madge sat thoughtful for a few minutes, her chin resting on her hand. At length she inquired — " When go ye back to sell provisions to them again ?" ^" This day week," was the reply. 1 " Then I shall tak my basket wi' eggs an butter, an' gae wi' ye," answered Madge. " O mother! what are ye sayin ?" cried Janet: ye maun gang nae sic gate. 1 ken yer temper wad flare up the moment ye heard a word spoken against Scotland, or a jibe broken on it; an' there is nae tellin what might be the consequence." " Leave baith the action an' the consequence to me, Janet, my woman," said the patriotic mother ; " as I brew, I will drink. But ye hae naething to fear ; I will be as mim in the Castle as ye wad he if gieing Florence yer hand in the kirk." The day on which the people were again to carry provi- sions to the garrison in Fast Castle arrived ; and, to the surprise of every one, Madge, with a laden basket on each arm, mingled amongst them. JIany marvelled, and the more mercenary said — " Ay, ay ! — IMadge likes to tuni the penny as weel as ither folk. The English will hae guid luck if ony o' them get a bargain oot o' her baskets." She, therefore, went to the Castle, bearing provisions with the rest of the peasantry ; but, under pretence of disposing of her goods to the best advantage, she went through and around the Castle, and quitted it not until she had ascer- tained where were its strongest, where its weakest points of defence, and in what manner it w;i3 guarded. AVhen, therefore, Florence Wilson again visited her dwelling, she addressed him, saying — " Noo, I hae seen cor enemies i' the heart o' their strength ; an" I hae a word to say to ye that ^nll try yer courage, an' the courage o' the bunders o' guid men an' true that ye hae spoken o' as oidy bidin their time to strike. Noo, is it yer opinion that, between Dunglass an' Eyemouth, ye could gather a hundred men willing an' ready' to draw the sword for Scotland's right, an" to drive the invadiTS frae Fast Castle, if a feasible plan \vere laid before them ?" >' I hae nae doot o't," replied he. ' Doots winna do," said she ; " \\ill yc try it.'" " Yes," said he. •' Florence, ye ihall be my son," added she, taking his band — " I sec'tbiie is sprit in yc yet. " Jfother," said Janet, earnestly, ' w hat dangerous errand is this ye wad set him upon ? — what do ye think it couhl matter to me ivha was governor o' Fast Castle, if Florence shoulil meet his death in the attemjit ?" " Wheesht ! ye silly lassie, ye," rejilied her mother ; " had I no borne ye, I wad hae said that ye hadiui a drap o' my bhiid i' yer veins. What is't that ye fear.'' if they'll abide by my counsel, though it may try their courage, oot purpose shall be accomjilisbed wi' but little scaith." " Neither fret nor fi'ar, dear," said Florence, addressing Jaiut ; " I hae a hand to defend my head, an' a guid sword to guard baith." Then turning to her mother, he added — " An' what may be yer plan, that I may com- municate it to them that 1 ken to be zealous in oor country's cause .''" " Were I to tell 3'e noo," said she, " that ye might com- municate it to them, before we were ready to put it in exe- cution, the story wad spread frae the Tweed to John o Groat's, and frae St Abb's to the Solway, aiul our designs be prevented. Na, lad, my scheme maun be laid before a the true men that can be gathered together, at the same moment, an' within a few hours o' its being put in execu- tion. Do ye ken the dark copse aboon Houmlwood, where there is a narrow and crooked opening through the tangled trees, but leading to a bit o' bonny green sward, where a thousand men might encamp unobserved }" " I do," answered Florence. " And think ye that ye could assemble the hundred men ye speak o' there, on this night fortnight .''" " I will try," replied he. " Try, then," added she, " and I will meet ye there be- fore the new moon sink behind the Lammerraoors." It was a few days after tliis tluit JIadge was summoned to the village of Home, to attend the funeral of a relative ; and while she was yet there, the castle of her ancestors was daringly wrested from the hands of the Protector's troops, by an aged kinsman of her own, and a handful of armed men. The gallant deed fired her zeal more keenl}', and strength- ened her resolution to wrost Fast Castle from the hands ( t the invaders. She had been detained at Home until the day on which Florence Wilson was to assemble the stout-hearted and trust-worthy in the copse above Houndwood. Her kindred would have detained her longer ; but she resisted their entreaties and took leave of them, saying that " her bit lassie, Janet, would be growing liKsorae wi' being left alane, an' that, at ony rate, she had business on hand that couldna be delayed." She proceeded direct to the place of rendezvous, without going onwards to her own house ; and, as she drew near the narrow opening which led to the green space in the centre of the dark copse, the young moon was sinking behind the hills. As she drew cautiously forward, she heard the sound of voices, which gradually became audible. " V/eil, Florence," said one, " what are ye waiting for ? Where is the grand project that yc was to lay before us >" ' Florence," said others, " let us proceed to business. It is gaun to be very dark, and ye will remember we have to gang as far as the Peaths* the night yet." Florence answered as one perplexed, but in his wonted words — " Hae patience — bide a wee ;" and added, in a sort of soliloquy, but loud enough to be overheard by his companions — " She promised to be here before the moon gaed down upon the Lammermoors." "Whadid.^ — wha promised to be here ?" inquired half a dozen voices. " I did!" cried JMadge, proudly, as she issued from the narrow aperture in the copse, and her tall figure was re- vealed by the fading moonbeams. \\\i\\ a stately step, sb« walked into the midst of them, and gazed round as though Tlie Pe««o Bridge. 212 TALES OF THE BORDERS. the blood and aignity of all tlie Homes had neen centred in her owTi person. " Weel, Madge," inquired they, " and, since ye aie come, for what hae ye brought us here.''" '' To try," added she, " whether, inheriting, as ye do, yer faithers' bluid, ye also inherit their spirit — to sec whe- ther ye hae the raanliood to break the yoke o' yer oppressors, or if ye liae the courage to follow the example which the men o' Home set ye the other nicht." " What have they done f" inquired Florence. " Hearken," said she, " ane and a' o' ye, and I will tell ye ; for, wi' my ain een, I beheld a sicht that was as joyfu' to me as the sight o' a sealed pardon to a condemned cri- minal. Yo weel ken that, for near twa years, the English have held Home Castle, just as they still hold Fast Castle beside us. Now, it was the other nicht, and just as the gi-ey gloam was darkening the towers, that an auld kinsman o' mine, o' the name o' Home, scaled the walls where they were highest, strongest, and least guarded ; thirty gallant countrymen had accompanied him to their foot, but, before they could follow his example, he was perceived by a sen- tinel, wha shouted out — ' To arms ! — to arms !' ' Cower, lads, cower !' said my auld kinsman, in a sort o' half whisper to his followers ; and he again descended the wall, and they hay down, with their swords in their hands, behind some whin bushes at the foot o' the battlements. There was run- ning, clanking, and shouting through the castle for a time; l>ut, as naething like the presence o' an enemy was either seen or heard, the sentry that had raised the alarm was laughed at, and some gacd back to their beds, and others to their wine. But, after about two hours, and when a'thing was again quiet, my kinsman and his followers climbed the walls, and, rushing frae sentinel to sentinel, they owrecam ane after anither before they could gie the alarm to the gar- rison in the castle ; and, bursting into it, shouted — • Hurra I — Scotland and Home for ever !' Panic seized the garrison ; some started frae their sleep — others reeled frae their cups — some grasped their arms — others ran, they knew not where — but terror struck the hearts o' ane and a' ; and still, as the cry ' Scotland and Home for ever !' rang frae room to room, and was echoed through the lang high galleries, it seemed like the shouting o' a thousand men ; and, within ten minutes, every man in the garrison was made prisoner or put to the sword ! And noo, neebors, what my kinsman and a handfu' o' countrymen did for the deliverance o' the Castle o' Home, can ye not do for Fast Castle, or will ye not — and so drive every invader oot o' Berwickshire ?" " I dinna mean to say, Madge," answered one, who ap- peared to be the most influential personage amongst her auditors — '•' I dinna mean to say but that your relation and his comrades hae performed a most noble and gallant exploit — one that renders them worthy o' being held in everlasting remembrance by their countrymen — and glad -would I he if we could this night do the same for Fast Castle. But, woman, the thing is impossible; the cases are not parallel. It mightna be a difficult matter to scale the highest part o' the walls o' Home Castle, and ladders could easily be got for that pur- pose ; but, at Fast Castle, wi' the draw-brig up, and the dark, deep, terrible chasm between you and the walls, like a bottomless gulf between time and eternity! — I sa}-, again, for my part, the thing is impossible. Wha has strength o' head, even for a moment, to look doun frae the dark and dizzy height o' the Wolf's Crag.'' — and wha could think o' scaling it .'' Even if it had been possible, the stoutest heart that ever beat in a bosom would, wi' the sickening horror o' its owner's situation, before he was half-way up, be dead as the rocks that would dash him to pieces as he fell ! Na, n.a, I should hae been glad to lend a helping and a willing liand to ony practicable plan, but it would be madness to throw awav our lives where there couldna be the sligiitest possibility o' success." " Listen," said ilid£;e ; - I kcr. wliat is possible, jnil what is impossible, as weel as ony o' ye I meant that ye should tak for example the dauntless spirit o' my kinsman and the men o' Home, ^nd no their manner o' entering the castle. But, if yer hearts beat as their hearts did, before this hour the morn's nicht, the invaders will be driven frae Fast Castle. In the mornin we are ordered to take provi- sions to the garrison. I shall be wi' ye, and in the front o ye. But, though my left arm carries a basket, beneath my cloak shall be hidden the bit sword which my guidman wore in the wars against King Harry; and, as I reach the last sentinel — ' Now, lads ! now for Scotland and our Queen '.' I shall cry ; and wha dare follow my example .-" " I dare ! I will !" said Florence Wilson, " and be at yer side to strike doun the sentinel ; and sure am I that there isna a man here that winna do or die, and drive owre enemies frae the Castle, or leave his body within its wa's for them to cast into the sea. Every man o' us. the morn, will enter the Castle wi' arms concealed aboot him, and hae them ready to draw and strike at a moment's warning. Ye canna say, freends, but «'hat this is a feasible plan^ and ye winna be outdone in bravery by a woman. Do ye agree to it .'" There were cries of — " Yes, Florence, yes .' — every mat o' us !" — and " It is an excellent plan — it is only a pity that it hadna been thocht o' suner." resounded on all sides ; but " Better late than never," said others. " Come round me, then," said Madge ; and they formed a circle around her. " Ye »wear now," she continued, "• in the presence o' Him who see tli through the darkness o' night and searcheth the heart, that nane o' ve will betray to oor enemies what we hae thi^ nicht determined on ; but that every man o' ye will, the morn, though at the price o' his life, do yer utmost to deliver owre groaning country frae the yoke o' its invaders and oppressors ! This ye swear .'" And they bowed their heads around her. " Awa, then," added she, " ilka man to his ain hoose, ano get his weapons in readiness." And, leaving the copse, they proceeded in various directions across the desolate moor. But Florence Wilson accompanied Madge to her dwelling; and, as they went, she said — " Florence, if ye act as weel the morn as ye hae spoken this nicht, the morn shall niv dochter, Janet, be yer wife, wi' a fu' purse for her portion that neither o' ye kens aboot." He pressed her hand in the fulness of his heart ; but she added — " Na, na, Florence, I'm no a person that cares aboot a fuss being made for the sake o' gratitude — thank me wi deeds. Kemember I have said — a' depends on yer conduct the morn." When they entered the house, poor Janet was weeping, because of her mother's absence, for she had expected her for two days ; and her apprehensions were not removed when she saw her in the company of Florence, who, although her destined husband, and who, though he had long been in the habit of visiting her daily, had called but once during her mother's absence, and then he was sad and spoke little. She saw that her parent had prev.iiled on him to undertake some desperate project, and she wept for his sake. M'hcn he arose to depart, she rose also and accompanied him to the door. " Florence," said she, tenderly, " you and my mother hae some secret between ye, which ye winna communicate to me." " A' that is a secret between us," said he, " is, that she consents that the morn ye shall be my winsome bride, if ve be willing, as I'm sure ye are ; and that is nao secret that I wad keep frae ye : but I didna wish to put ye aboot bj mentioning it before her." Janet blushed, and again aaoeo — " But there is something mair between ve than that i Florence and w by should ye hide it f-ne me :" TALES OF THE BORDERS. 213 Dear nic liiniiy!' said lie, "1 woiuior that ye sliovid be s:ic apiireliensive. 'i'lit'ie is iiue secret between yii" iiKitlier an' me that isna «eel-keiined to every ane in tlie country-side. But just ye liae patience — bide a wee — wait only till the morn ; and, whin 1 come to lead ye afore tlie minister, I'll tell ye a'lhin;^ then." " An' wherefore no tell me the noo, Florence ?" said slie. ■' I am sure that there is something brewing, an' a danger- ous somethinjr too. Daur ye no trust me.' Ye may think me a weak an' silly creature ; but, if I am not just so rash and outspoken as my mother, try me if I liaena as stout a heart when there is a necessity for shewing it." " Week Janet, dear," said Florence, " I winna conceal frae ye that there is something brewing — but what tliat something is 1 am nut at libeity to tell. I am bound by an oath not to speak o't, and ,so are a hunder otliers, as weel as me. Hut the morn it will be in my ])ower to tell ye a'. Noo, juft he ye contented, and get ready for our wedding." '■ And my mother kens," Janet was proceeding to say, when Iier mother's yuice was heard, cruiig from the house — " Come in, Janet — wiiat are ye doing oot there in the cauld .' — ye hae been lang enough wi' Florence tlie nielit — but the morn's niclit ye may speak to him as lang as ye like. Sae come in, lassie " As the reader may suppose, JFadge was not one whose commands required to be uttered twice ; and, with a troubled heart, Janet bade Florence " Good-night," and returned to the cottage. It was a little after sunrise on the following day, when a body of more than a hundred peasantry, agreeably to the command of the governor, appeared before the Castle, laden with provisions. Some of them Jiad the stores which they nad brought upon the backs of horses, but which they placid upon their own shoulders as they approached the bridge. Amongst them were fishermen from Eyemouth and Colding- iiam, she|)herds from the hills with slaughtered sheep, millers, and the culti^'ators of the patches of arable ground beyond the moor. With them, also, were a few women carrying egiTS, butter, cheese, and poultry ; and at the head of the procession (for the narrowness of the drawbridge over the i'rghtfid chasm, beyond which the Castle stood, caused the company to assume the form of a procession as they entered the walls) was Madge Gordon, ami her intended sou-iu-law, Florence Wilson. The drawbridge had been let down to them : the last of the burdi-n-beavers had crossed it ; and JIadge had reached the farthest sentinel, when suddeidy dropping her basket, out from bene.ith her grey cloak gleamed the sword of her dead husband ! " Now, lads ! — now for Scotland and our Queen !" she f xclaimed, and as she spoke, the sword in her hand pierced the body of the sentinel. At the same instant every man cast his burden to the ground, a hundred hidden swords were revealed, and every sentinel was overpowered. "Forward, lads! forward !" shouted Madge. "Forward!" cried Florence Wilson, with his sword in his hand, leading the way. They rushed into the interior of the Castle ; they divided into bands. Some placed them- selves before the ar.senal where arms were kept, while others rushed from room to room, making prisoners of those of the garrison who yielded willingly, and shewing no ipiarter to -hose who resisted. Jlany sought saftty in flight, some flying half-naked, aroused from morning dreams after a night's carouse, and almost all fled without weapons of defence. The effect upon the garrison was as if a thunderbolt had burst in the midst of them. AVithin l-.alf an hour, Fast Castle was in tlie hands of the peasantry, and tlie entire soldiery who had defended it had either fled, were slain, or made prisoners. Besides striking the first blow, .Madge had not permitted 'die sword of her late husbai'.d to remain idle in her hands during the conflict. And, as the con(]uerors gathered round Florence Wilson, to acknowledge to him that to his coun- sel, jiresence of mind, and courage, as their leader, in the midst of the confusion that prevailed, thev owed their vic- tory, and the deliverance of the east of Berwickshire from its invaders, Madge prc'^sed forward, and, presenting him her husband's sword, said — " Tak this, my .son, and keep it — it was the sword r.' n brave man, and to a brave man 1 gie it — and this night shall ve be my son indeed." " Thank ye, mother mother !" said Florence. And as he spoke a faint smile crossed his features. But scarce had he taken the sword in his hand, ere a voice was heard, crying — ' Where is he ? — where shall I find him ? — does he live f — where is my mother.'" " Here, love ! — here ! It is my Janet !" cried Florence; hut his voice seemed to fail him as be spoke. " Come here, my bairn," cried her mother, " and in the presence o' these witnesses receive a hand that ye may be proud o'." As part of the garrison fled through Coldln<^ham, Jaiiet had heard of the sur)iri>e by "liicli the Cattle had been taken, and ran towards it to gather tidings of her mother and affianced husband ; for she now kiu-w the secret uhicli they would not reveal to her. As she rushed forward, the crowd that surrounded Flo- rence gave way, and, as he moved forward to meet her, it was observed that he shook or staggered as he went ; but it was thought no more of; and when she fell upim his bosom, and her mother took their hands and pressed them together, the multitude burst into a shout and blessed them, lie strove to speak — he muttered the word, " Janet !" but his arms fell from her neck, and he sank as lifeless on the ground. " Florence ! my Florence ! — he is wounded — murdered !" cried the maiden, and she flung herself beside him on tha ground. Jladge and the spectators endeavoured to raise him ; but his eyes were closed; and, as he gasped, they with difficulty could understand the words he strove to utter — " ^V'ater — water \" He had, indeed, been wounded — mortally wounded — but he spoke not of it. They raised him in their arms and car- ried him to an apartment in the Castle: but, ere they reached it, the spirit of Florence Wilson had fled. Poor Janet clung to his lifeless body. She now cried — " Florence ! — Florence ! — we shall be married to-night ! — yes ! — yes ! — I have everything ready !" And again she spoke bitter words to her mother, and said that she had mur- dered her Florence. The spectators lifted her from Ids' body, and IMadge stood as one on whom affliction, in thf midst of her triumph, had fallen as a palsy, depriving her of speech and action. " Jly poor bereaved bairn !" she at length exclaimed ; and she took her daughter in her arms and kissed her — " ye hae indeed cause to mourn, for Florence was a noble lad ! — but, oh, dinna .say it was my doing, hinny ! — dinna wyte yer mother ! — will ye no, Janet ? It is a great com- fort that Florence has died like a hero." But Janet never was herself again. She became, as their neighbours said, a poor, melancboly, maundering creature, going about talking of her Florence and the surprise of Fast Castle, and ever ending her story — " But I maun awa hame and get ready, for r lorence and 1 are to be married the nicht." i\Iadge lollowed her, mourning, wheresoever she went, bearing with and soothing all her humours. But she had not long to bear them; for, within two yi ars, Janet was laid by the side of Florence Wilson, in Coldingham kirkyard ; and. before another winter howled over their peaceful graves, Madge lay at rest beside them. ;i4 •TALES OF THE BORDERS. LEAVES PROM THE DIARY OF AN AGED SPINSTER The poet of The Elegy par excellence, hath written two liues which run thus — *' Full many a flower is bom to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness on the desert air." Now, I never can tliink of these lines but they remind me of the tender, delicate, living, breathing, and neglected riowers that bud, blossom, shed their leaves, and die, in cold unsunned obscurity — flowers that were formed to shed their fragrance around a man's heart, and to charm liis eye — but which, though wandering melancholy and alone in the wilderness where they grow, he passeth by with neglect, making a companion of his loneliness. But, to drop all metaphor — where will you find a flower more interesting than a spinster of threescore and ten, of sixty, of fifty, or of forty ? They have, indeed, " wasted their sweetness on the desert air." Some call them " old maids ;" but it is a malicious appellation, unless it can be proved that they have refused to be wives. I would always take the part of a spinster: they are a peculiar people, far more " sinned against than sinning." Every blockhead thinks himself at liberty to crack a joke upon them ; and when he says something that he con- ceives to be wondrous smart about IMiss Such-an-one and her cat or poodle dog, he conceives himself a marvellous clever fellow ; yea, even those of her own sex who are below what is called a " certain age," (what that age is, I cannot tell,) think themselves privileged to giggle at the expense of their elder sister. Now, though there may be a degree of peevishness (and it is not to be wondered at) amongst the sisterhood, yet with them you will find the most sensitive tenderness of heart, a delicacy that quivers, like the aspen leaf, at a breath, and a kindliness of soul that a mother might envy — or rather, for envy, shall I not write imitate ? But, ah ! if their history were told, what a chronicle would it exhibit of blighted afiections, withered hearts, secret tears, and midnight sighs ! The first spinster of whom I have a particular remem- brance, as belonging to her caste, was Diana Darling. It is now six and twenty years since Diana paid the debt of nature, up to which period, and for a few years before, she rented a room in Cliirnside. It was only a year or tno before her death that I became acquainted with her; and I was then very young. But I never shall forget her kind- ness towards me. She treated me as though I had been her own child, or rather her grandchild, for she was then very little under seventy years of age. She had always an air of gentility about her ; people called her " a betterish sort o' body." And, although Miss and Mistress are becoming general appellations now, twenty or thirty years ago, upon the Borders, those titles were only applied to particular persons or on particular occasions ; and whether their more frequent use now is to be attributed to the schoolmaster being abroad or the dancing-master being abroad, I can- not tell, but Diana Darling, although acknowledged to be a " betterish sort o' body," never was spoken of by any other term but " auld Diana," or " auld Die." Well do I remem- ber her flowing chintz gown, with short sleeves, her snow- white apron, her whiter cap, and old kid gloves reaching to her elbows ; and as well do I remember how she took one of the common blue cakes which washerwomen use, and tying it up in a piece of woollen cloth, dipped it in water, and daubed it round and round the walls of her room, to give thera the appearance of being papered. I have often heard of and seen stenciling since ; but, rude on the island ; and, strolling carelessly along towards the castle, with his pipe in his teeth, he met the sergeant who had the command of the garrison. ' Well, sergeant," said the skipper, " what news have you this morning ?" " Why, ha'nt you heard them, master ?" rephed the other ; ♦ I hear as how the whole mainland is in arras, and some say the Pretender h ts arrivei^ in Scotland " " Ay, ay, retumeu L.auncelot, laughing ; " that, ctory may do to frighten old women, but it won't go down with men. I say, friend, the people on shore are not quite saci fools as that would prove them to be ; neither do I believe that the Pretender is so much of an ass as to venture his head in this country again." " Well, well, you may laugh, master," rejoined the ser- geant ; " but I know it is no laughing matter. Our com- manding ofiicer mentions it in the instructions which he sent me from Berwick this morning." " Why, are the people mad ?" said Launcelot ; " do they intend to plunge the country in ci\-il war for the sake of any man? Hang the whole race of fools, say I;" and as he spoke, he dashed his pipe upon the ground and broke it to pieces. " Well done, master," added the sergeant ; " I am glad to find your principles are of the right sort ; so come along lo my room in the castle, and we will drink the health of hjs Majesty King George, and confusion *'> iis enemies, La a tankard of nut-brown ale." " Whew ! whew !" whistled the skipper ; " no, my heartyj when I drink his health it is in brandy — brandy redder than the rising sun ; none of your slops for me. But, as I believe you to be an honest fellow, come aboard of my brig, now lying alongside here ; bring all your men with you thai aren't upon duty — there is room enough in the cabin for all — and you shall have a drop of the real blood-warmer, pure as Imported ; and I'm blowed but you've too honest a face n^t to wink at how it was imported. By the way, I have also got two beautiful salmon on board, and we shall demolish them an-iongst us as a relish to the brandy. So tip youi men the boatswain's whistle, and I'U call a boat ashore." The rarity of brandy and salmon was too much for the sergeant's stomach ; and, though he at first said there was no necessity for taking his men with him — " Oh, the more the merrier— that is always my way," said Launcelot ; and, with- in ten minutes, the sergeant and every soldier belonging to the garrison, with the exception of a corporal, two privates, and an old gunner, were on board the little brig. Launcelot did the honours of the table, and his nephew, Mark, acted as croupier. The salmon quickly disappeared, and the brandy went merrily round. The skipper, to use his own phrase, was a " seasoned cask ;" and, after pouring the contents of a bottle down his throat, he could draw another cork, and say he would " wet both eves." jNInrk was more abstemious; though, being used to the liquor, it required no sm.all quantity to produce a visible effect upon him. But it was too potent for the soldiers. Launcelot plied them with the " drv stuff, neat as imported." The bng, too, began to heave a little; for an easterly breeze had sprung up, and she began to toss up and down, bow and stem, and caused divers of the soldiers to shake on and from their seats. But the skipper cried — " Never mind, my hearties ! — up again ! — there is nothing like a drop of the real stuff for sea-sickness." The sergeant had just finished his ninth glass, and re- turned it to the table with the fiourisli of a hero, hiccuping, and stretching out his arm to the skipper to shake hands with him, when the brig giving a sudden plunge, down went the man of war, with his face upon the cabin floor, and three of his companions fell upon him. They strove to rise, but it was vain. They had become drunk, dead drunk, as in a mo- ment, and they groaned in sickness — deadly sickness. Their companions laughed at their disaster, and commenced in full chorus to sing a bacchanalian song. Launcelot joined in the chorus, and cried — " Fill again, my boys ! — fiU again ! — never mind the sergeant— he'll soon come round, no fear of him." Another glass, and the vociferating of the song, produced the desired efiect. Every soldier's head reeled — thev begMi to see double. " St George !" exclaimed Launcelot, " but I must or shore ; I have something to do." And, as he ascended ti« cabin stairs, Mark rose and followed bim- TALES OF THE BOKDEllS. 219 " Hollo, master ! — where are _vou goin;^, eli >" cried tlie soldiers; " you are not going to leave us in tliis way?" " No, no, my lirave fellows," cried the skipper ; " draw another cork, and make yourselves at home; I'll he with you presently." " Ay, ay," rejoined they ; " we'll do that, and quickly too — good luck to ye, master." " Now, Mark, my lad," said the skipper, " just keep by tne, and you shall see a bit of sport." And going to the head of the vessel, lie called to him a seaman, and said — " Bob, take a handspike, and go aft to the companion, and tlie first of those lobsters in the caliin that oflers to crawl upon deck, give him a tip over the sconce with it, and send Lim, heels up, down again." " Very well, Sir," said the seam.in unconcernedly, stoop- ing, and lifting up a handspike as he spoke ; " I'll do that." " Skull us ashore, boy," said Launcelot, to the urchin of whom we have already spoken, as resembling a water-imp ; and leaping into the boat, while his nephew followed liim — "Now, JMark, my lad," continued he, " now for a touch at (jlory !" Tliey were landed within a hundred yards of the castle, and immediately proceeded towards it. The sentinel at the gtite, knowing thera as the boon companions of his fellow-soldiers, suB'ered them to approach him. " Well, my fine fellow," said Launcelot, addressing him, ' I must say it is too bad to keep you fixed up here like a pilhir, or lark in a cage, while your comrades are all ns merry as old Bacchus, on board of my little brig. But 1 didn't forget you, and have brought a drop of the creature to comfort your heart." The sentinel was about to thank him, when Launcelot, instead of producing the bottle, suddenly grasped him by the throat, dashed him on the ground, and ■^^Tested his musket from his hands, crying, as he did so, " Now, Mark, into the castle, and down with the corporal !" The soldier was as a child in the iron grasp of Launcelot Errington, who, pulling a quantity of rope-yarn from his breast, tied his prisoner hand and foot, and left him on the ground. His nephew, in the meantime, had hurried into the castle, where, meeting the corporal, he as easily over- came him, as his uncle had disarmed the sentinel. There remained but another soldier and the old gunner to conquer, ■''eizing the arms of his hand-and-foot-bound prisoner, Launcelot h.istened to the eastern side of the castle, where the other soldier stood guard, and approaching, unobserved, within a few yards of him, and presenting the musket, cried, " Yield !.^ized the old gunner (who had ventured out of the armoury on hearing the cries of the corporal for assistance) by the breast, and held him until he should receive the commands of his uncle concerning him. " Tie the old cliaji's wrists, but not his feet, Mark," cried Launcelot, on beholding his nephew with his foot on the body cf the corporal, and his hand on the breast of the gun- ner ; " only tie his hands to prevent his doing mischief; I have a use for his feet." Mark pinioned the veteran accordingly ; and Launcelot, dracrgiii" the two soldiers and the corporal into separate apartments, locked them up ; and returning again to his nephew and the gunner, he clenched his fist in the face of the latter, and said, " Naw, oiy old man, without a word of a murmur, you shew me wbire to find the kevs of the gates ;" and the gunner did m< Launcelot took the keys, and ne and his nephew, snutting the gates, locked themselves ^vithiIl the walls of the castle. constituting ttieiiiseivcs its governors am? gr.mson. Again, addressing the giiiiner, the skipper added, " Now, old one, I have just aiioliier jiieee of service for you to perfonn, and then I shall lock you up as I have done your comrades. Lead us to whercMvi- shall git the keys of the magazine and the arsenal, and then conduct Ui to them." But the old man having porceived a body of fishermen proceeding across the field that lay between the castle and the town, and judging that the alarm would soon be given to the sergeant and his men, he took courage, and ventured to grumble between his teeth, " No, confound nie if I do 1" " Oh, thou won't shew me to them, old ladf" said Launce- lot ; " you wont, eh ? — Well, take hold of his feet, Mark ; I have a short way of dealing with all stubborn rebels." Mark seized the old gunner by the feet, while his uncle pulled back his shoulders ; and lifting him from the ground they carried him to the highest point of the battlements, and immediately over the perpendicular cliff that rose from the beach. " Once ! — tmce ! — thrice I" cried Launcelot, while he and his nephew swung the gunner in the air, suspending him over the piled battlement and cliff, l^auncelot paused ; and, adiLressing his victim, sternly said, " Do you consent to shew us all, now? Refuse again, and I will hurl you headlong over the precijiice, to be a morning meal to the sea-birds from the Fern isles !" The veteran was no cow- ard, but his heart failed as he felt himself tossed in the air, with death yawTung beneath him. " I will shew you — shew you everything," he gasped, lie took them to where the arms and the powder were kept, and Launcelot and his nephew, having loaded the few cannon upon t!;e ramparts, loaded also every musket that they could find in the castle, and placed them on the tux- rets, ready for defence. Above a hundred inhabitants of the island — men, women, and children — now stood before the gate of the castle, mar- velling at the doings of bold skipper Errington, and his ne- phew Mark. But he kept them not long in suspense as to liis intentions ; for, pulling down the union flag of the united kingdom from the pole upon the ramparts, he hoisted in its stead the symbol of the house of Stuart ; and, taking oft' his hat, waved it towards the people, and cried, at the utmost pitch of his stentorian voice, " I hereby proclaim our only lawful sovereign, James, the Third of England and Ninth of Scotland, King of tliese realms; and let all good men and true come now and enrol themselves under his standard ! God save the King ! say I ; and let every traitor be choked that won't say the same." Then Launcelot and his nephew fired two pieces of can- non, and gave thref; cheers for King James ; but the spec- tators responded not to their shout. Some said, " Why, the old skipper and his mate are drunk, and it is only a frolic ; but they are carrying the joke too far." Others said they were mad. But Jlark said to him, " Well, uncle, we have got the castle into our own keeping, and what are we to do with it, ivow that we have got it ? W'e shall have a whole regiment of soldiers against us from Berwick to-morrow, I have no doubt, and you and I can't defend it." " Look ye, IMark," said Launcelot, " don't be shewing the white feather, or I will swear again you are no Erring- ton, no brother's son of mine, or a drop's blood to me, and the brig may sink where she lies at anchor for all that I care. But now, I say, Jlark — I am saying, don't you be thinking but that I know what I have been about all this time. Why, man, the two guns that I fired just now, were a signal to three French privateers, that I have no doubt are l.png snugly enough behind the Ferns, out of sight, but within hearing. We shall have them here to-night ; and, if you keep your eye across the Low, npon Beai bushea in the morning, you will see a troop of General Fostei'l Z'M TALES OF THE BORDERS. men coming lo our assistance. flien, ray lad, I shall be jrovernor of" the custle, and you shall be my lieutenant, and jwner of the brig into the bargain." " Well," said .Mark, " it doesn't matter much. I c.in't say i hare any fancy to be mewed up in a stand-still, stone- and-lime castle, with alu'ays the same thing before your eyes ; but I t.ake it that I can stand fire as well as any man, and will stand it too, as you shall see, if it comes to that ; — only, as we had put in here, I had made up my mind for a different sort of amusement to-night." " And what sort of amusement might tliat be ? — To go a-swecthcarting, eh.?" ' Why, I daresay, it w.as there and thereabouts. I in- tended to have gone along as far as Bamborough, to have seen an old acquaintance." " llo ! ho ! Sally Beadnell," interrupted the uncle ; " you must defer that to another day, Mark. At present, my lad, as the saying goes, you have other fish to fry." " I see that," said Mark ; " and I suppose, if we h.ave thrust our heads into a trap, we must defend them as we best can. However, happen what may, I'll stand by you while I have a foot to stand upon." "Give me your hand again, nevy," cried Launcelot ; " you're a, famous fellow! — Mark, I'm proud of you !" Now, in the course of the night, the sergeant awoke from the deep in which his drunkenness had sealed up his senses, and gathering himself up upon the cabin floor, wondering where he was, and positive that north had be- come south, and south north, while the motion of the ves- sel rendered his " confusion worse confounded," and he stumbled now over one of his companions in dissipation, and again over another, until shouting at the utmost pitch of his voice — " Hollo ! where am I .? I am Sergeant Chadwell, commander-in-chief of Holy Island Castle ! Hollo! where am I?" And his shouting aroused them from their death-like slumbers. Rising on their hands and knees, sick and shivering, one by one, they began to be conscious of their situation ; and one of them ventured to ascend the cabin stairs. But no sooner had he raised his head upon a level with the deck, than the seaman, faith- ful to the injunctions of his commander, made the hand- spike descend upon it with suthcient force to cause the soldier to go reeling backwards and downwards amongst his comrades. Another attempted to lead the way, and met with the same fate. " Fire and thunder !" shouted the valorous sergeant, — " what is the meaning of this ? AVe are in France, or the Highlands, and in the hands of the Pre- tender and his cannibal Scotchmen, I'll be sworn for it." He drew his sword, and flourished it at the foot of the cabin stairs ; and terror causing his followers to forget their shivering, thirst, and sickness, they unsheathed their bay- onets, and threatened, loud and deeply, destruction to all who should oppose them. Their wild and desperate noise attracted the attention of the crews of several boats that had been out at the herring-fishing ; and they pulling alongside of the brig, in a few minutes the sergeant and his company were released from their captivity ; and, on being brought ashore to the island, made conscious of all that had taken place during their nap in the lap of oblivion. The men looked stupid and silly, and now the sergeant raved, that, like a Roman, he would turn his sword upon his own breast, for he could not live deprived of his. honour ; and again he threatened to storm the castle, sword in hand ; which thre.1t, while the fumes of the brandy still recked in his brain, he, in some measure, carried into effect ; for, marshalling outhisfifteenrankandfile in front of the abbey — he with his swordinhis hand, and they with their bayonets — he marched them in front of the castle-gate, over which they found Mark Errington standing sentinel, with a firelock over 1 is shoulder. The sergeant commanded him to surrender. M ark wp.s prone to la ^^ • and he now laughed aloud, and inquired, " Who brought them ashore r" In vain the ser- geant demanded that be should come down and open the gates, and in vain he brandished his sword and his com- pany their bayonets ; for Mark laughed the more. Finding their threats and the flourishing of their weapons of no effect; they began to gather stones, and hurled at his head a volley of missiles. Mark crouched for a moment behind the battlement, and springing up so soon as the shower of stones had fallen beyond him, levelled his firelock, and, touching the trigger, carried away a portion of the right cheek and ear of the sergeant commanding in chief. He raised his hand to his head, and, as he shouted — •' I'm shot ! — I'm dead !" — his followers turned upon their heels, and " fled for safety and for succour ;" and, as he shouted, and they ran, again Mark's loud laugh was heard half over the island. Throughout the night, Launcelot made such signals as had been agreed on ; but the day dawned, and neither the French privateers, nor the troop that General Foster was to send, arrived to his assistance. The firing of the two pieces of cannon on the previous day had attracted the attention of the inhabitants of Ber- wick ; and the commander of the garrison, proceeding with glass in hand to the look-out upon the ramparts, to his consternation beheld the standard of the house of Stuart waving in the wind from Holy Island Castle. The garrison in that fortress was but a part of, or a dependency on his, and he, as well as the sergeant, felt his honour implicatei in the transaction. In a few minutes the news spread from street to street, that the rebels were in possession of Holy Island; and great was the excitement that prevailed. Early, therefore, in the morning, three companies of infantry, pre- ceded by as many pieces of artillery, proceeded along the bridge and over Tweedmouth Moor, until, arriving at Beal Bushes, they directed their march upon the island. Mark, being told by his vuicle to keep his eyes in the morning fixed upon Beal Bushes, was the first to percei\'e them ; and, calling to his uncle, he said — " Well, yonder is a goodly company of red-coats coming towards the island ; but I don't think, uncle, they are the gentlemen that Mr Foster was to send to our assistance." Alark spoke this Ln a tone of what may be called subdued irony. " No, splice me if they are, nevy I" answered Launcpi- lot; " I'd bet a stiver thny are the Elector's lobsters from Berwick. But never mind, my boy ; I am governor here in the name of the king, and they shan't compel me to give up the keys while there is a shot left in the lockers of the castle." As the tide began to ebb, what a short time before ha"^ been a sea of two or three miles in width, separating the island from the mainland, became a dry sand, with only the streamlet Lindis winding through it, and leaving a footway communication from Beal to the island. The soldiers now began their march across the Low, and, about noon, drew up in hostile array before the castle. Tha first act of their commanding officer, on learning the actu.il situation of affairs, was to cause the sergeant and his out- witted company to be placed under arrest. He then, with his brother officers and about fifty men, marched forward to the foot of the rock on which the small but formidable castle stands, and summoned its occupants to surrender a( discretion. " You, Sir, may surrender, if you please," answered bold Launcelot ; " but I can tell thee, thou wilt find no stJcL word in any dictionary in Holy Island Castle — therefore, I don't know what you mean. Do thou thy best, and I'll do mine Make ready, M;irk, my lad," he added ; " we mns hold out until the General or some of them rome to cm assistance, and when they hear the sound of our beixijj td warm work it will hasten them." The three pieces of artillery were pointed against the gi'.e of the castle, and the soldiers poured a shower ol TALES OF THE BORDERS. f^i'i mt-sketry wliurever the heads of Lnuiinl 'i d. . is nepni-w were for a iiuiiiicut \'isilile. Tlie two kinsmen, liowover, maintained :i lonj;, a desperate, and an aetive resistanee. Some lay dead around tlie foot of the roek, and many were borne wounded to the town. The fisiiermeii, who stood at a distance, speetafors of the siege, wliile tiiey (irofessed to be enemies of the Pope and the Pretender, (wliom some of tiiera considered one and tlie same person — or, at h'ast, father and son,) wished success to hold l.auneelot and his nephew, and loudly expressed their admiration of their coolness and cour.'i<;e, and the nohle stand which they inadi^ Hut the pate of the castle was ut length forced, and the soldiers rushed in. " Well, IMark, my boy," said Launcelot, " since it is to be, I suppose it must he. Urave men have had to u.se iheir heels as well as their hands before to-day. Follow me." Escapin'T thronirh a small window in the castle, they clun<' to the sides of the almost precipitous rocks, and after a most perilous descent, succeeded in reaching the beach. They attempted to conceal themselves among the sea-weed ; but being discovered, were compelled to continue their Uight towards the mainland. The sea had again set in, and communication with the opposite coast was cut otT ; and when Launcelot saw this, he said — "The sea is in, hut riever mind, Mark, it is so much the better, we won't drown ; we can swim for it, and they daren't follow us." They had reached within a hundred yards of the point where they proposed to plunge into the sea and swim for the mainland, when a shot from one of a party of soldiers, who closely pursued them, pierced Launcelot through the thigh, shattering the bone, and he fell, unable to rise again, upon the sand. " Run, iMark ! run, my lad !" he cried — " never mind me." But JLirk turned, and raising his 'jncle upon his shoulders, ran with hira to the sea and plunged in. He, however, had not reached beyond his ow-u depth, when a dozen soldiers, rushing into the water after hira, surrounded, and pointing their muskets at his head, brought him with his burden to the shore. " Keep a good heart, IMark," said the wounded uncle, on finding that they were prisoners — " you know the saying — ' They who are born to be drowned will never be hanged ;' and I should like to know who were born to be drowned If you and I were not. Fear nothing, JIark — I sa_v, fear nothing. When the King arrives, if he be a man at all, he won't he for- getting IVLirk and Launce Errington, and this day's work. I sav, you swabs," added he, addressing the soldiers, " if you will have me for a prisoner, you must carry me, for I can't set a timber to the ground." And he muttered some- thing about the cowardliness of shooting a man behind his back. The uncle and nephew were fettered, and conveyed in R cart to Berwick jail, where, notwithstanding his confine- cnent, Launeelot's wound healed rapidly, and his limb ac- quired strength. Their trial was to come on at the ensuing sessions ; and as death, at least, was their certain doom, their fate created a wondrous sensation in the town. Burgess and stallenger spoke of nothing else ; and some even did not think the town safe with two such terrihle rebels im- prisoned in it. However, 1 am persuaded that they had friends in Berwick, though their names are not recorded. Be this as it may, the skipper and his nephew looked for- ward to their fate, not only with perfect indifference, but they sang from morning until night — " no lark so blithe as they." 'Chey astonished the jailor, and, being cathohcs, they would have nothing to say to the chaplain. Berwick prison-house stood then, as it does now, (though the present is not the same building,) a huge nuisance in the midst of the street called Marygate ; and then, as now, iebtors and felons often met together within it. Now, oae djy.tUe prisonaru had suspended by a cord, from tlieir iron- grateii «inil(jws, a tin can, on which was pa.sted a piVcnof paper, and on the jiajier was written this simple petilion- " Uk.mk.miikk tiik j'ooit I'liisoNKiis." Benevolent people in passing along the street, occasionally drop[)ed a coin inU the tin can. But one ilay, some waggish boy, or secret iiiejid of il;e Sluart family, slipped into it a mason's chisel Some of the prisoners, on drawing up the can, and perceiv- ing the chisel, proposed to throw it over the window again, but Launcelot, who had never been a partaker of the alms which they received, seized it, and conceding it in lii» bosom, exclaimed — " You take the pence, I take the chisel." Mark smiled significantly as the latter placed the iron in- strument in his breast. Great was the consternation of the jailor, about a fort- night after this, when, on visiting his wards in the morning, according to custom, he found one after another deserted them In his stow-hole, which, he suid, " AU the men alivt would never find out." I should have told you, hovrever, that IMark, on leaping out of the boat, pushed it adrift, so that no trace of wh^rfi they had landed might be discovered, and within a quarter n9 an hour from their leaving it, it was carried out to gea. After the jaiwr had spread the alarm, so diligent was the search that had been made, that within six hours every prisoner who had escaped, save Jlark and his neiihew, Tfere captured and brought back to the jail. But they were the principal objects of search. The commander of the garrison offered a reward for their being secured, and a price was set upon their heads ; while they remained secure in the stow-hole of the Spittal fisherman, and from night to night he brought them tidings of all that had passed. One night be entered, after they had been concealed about ten days, and the dim lamp revealed that his countenance was, be- yond expression, rueful. " Ah ! Waster Errington," said he, shaking his head, " I doubt you and your nevy canna bide here in safety ony langer. I was ower in the toon the day, an' I see prented bills aboot the street, and government offerin' a reward o' five hundred pounds to onybody that will discover or appre- hend outher the one or the other o' ye. An' ye knaw Jem Phillips — him that ye refused to trust the brandy to last year — I knaw he hates you ever since ; I saw him reading the prented bill the day, an' I hae my awn reasons for think- ing that Jem knaws where ye are. Therefore, as a friend, I would advise ye baith to shift your quarters this very nicbt." They deemed it prudent to take his advice, and, within half an hour, left their place of concealment ; but not until, from the wardrobe of his wife, he had arrayed them as fish-women — and with their own jackets over the gowns, their heads ornamented with red and yellow hand- kerchiefs tied beneath their chins, and descending in a loose point down their necks, and each with a creel upon his shoulders, they bade farewell to their friend, and wandered forth upon the moor. " Now, Mark, lad," said Launcelot, " what road dost thou think we should steer > I have a thought that Gene- ral Foster will either be about Wooler or Kelso, and I think our best way will be to strike west, and try to find him. What dost thou say .''" " Why, vmcle, I say that we might seek him until we were found ourselves, and that, I suppose, is what neither you nor I wish. No ; if there is any one that will prove a friend to us now, and not betray us, it is Sally Beadnell ; and I could trust her father, too." Launcelot continued walking across the moor for a few minutes in silence, and, at length, replied — " Well, I believe you are right, IMark — Bamborough be it. Only you know daylight will be in, and every person astir, before we could reach Belford. Now, I propose that we strike across to Kyloe hills, and conceal ourselves all the day among the rocks, and we shall bear down on Sally Beadnell's at mid- night." " Agreed," replied Mark ; and as they passed over the grounds of Scremerston, Launcelot said — " We should be able to get some tidings of the General's movements here, if we knew where to make the inquiry, for we are now on the property of the brave young Derwentwater." " Very likely," added Mark ; " but we don't know friend from foe, or who to inquire at, and I prefer pushing on to Sally Beadnell's." So they continued their flight through Cheswicb, Hag- gerston, and Lowlin, and, before day dawned, both sat down in a desolate place, behVid a grey rock, on the Kyloe hills. When the bup. arose, Launcelot raised his head over the bare rock, and from his situation he had a full view of Lindisfeme and its bay; and, after gazing for a few minutes, tie said, with a sort of sigh — " I say Mark, look 1 the rascals have our brig away from the island ; there isn't a square-rigged vessel in the roads — nothing but a Scotch sloop from Grangemouth, or thereabouts — I know by her build." Mark looked over the rock, and, half pathetically, half indignantly, exclaimed — " Jingo ! so they have 1 The fellows could not sail without your orders — who can have taken her.'" " Oh ! the Elector's sharks !" said Launcelot ; " but never mind, nevy — let her go, and sink with them too. If we get out of this scrape, I can still leave you something handsome that they can't touch." " Don't talk about that, uncle," said Mark ; " but they shan't keep the brig when I learn who has her." Launcelot gave his nephew a slap upon the shoulder, and cried — " Well said, boy ! I like you better and better, Mark." The day passed on, and they had seen people at a dis tance, but none observed them. A little before midnight they left their retreat among the hills, and began to descent, towards Bamborough. Now, the father of Sally Beadnell was a farmer, and his house lay about a mile distant from Bamborough Castle, and it was drawing towards three o'clock in a winter morning, when a gentle tapping was heard at the window of the room in which Sally slept. " Who's there .''" she inquired, in a low and timid voice. " It is me, Sally — Mark !" was the answer. " Blark !" she responded, in a low faint tone of astonish- ment, and approaching the \%'indow, anxiously whispered — " Don't speak, darling ! — don't stir ! — lest you be heard ! I will come to you in a minute ! But, oh ! why have you ventured here .''" " There is to be danger here, too," muttered Launcelot. Alark shook his head, and in the same manner answered — " I doubt it." In a few minutes, the door was gently turned upon it» hinges, and a female issued from the house. Even the dim starlight of the morning revealed that she was young and beautiful. She started, when, instead of meeting her fugi- tive lover, she beheld two tall, uncouth-looking fishwomen, with creels upon their backs before her. " Don't be afraid, Sally, dear," whispered JIark, approach- ing her.—" it is me. You must save my hfe, love !" She threw herself in his arms, and said — " O Mark ! — dear Mark ! — why have you ventured here ? IIow can I save you .'' You are surrounded by the government soldiers We are suspected of harbouring you as it is, and two ol them are billeted, I think they call it, in the house. Oh where can you go ? — where can I hide you .'' I have heard even our servants saying, amongst themselves, that they wished they could get the five hundred pounds that are set upon your head !" Mark was silent ; and his uncle added — " This is nc harbour for us, lad — we must push our boat off in another direction, though it be through the breakers. There is no help for it now. It is only dying at the worst, and we haw met death in the face many a time." Sally clung around Mark's neck and wept. " Don't cry, dear," said he ; " since it is so, and we caa have no shelter here, we must just risk every danger, and try to find our way to Foster's army. Behke you can tell us, love, where it ncv is .''" " Alas !" replied she, and she wept more bitterly, " lie has no army now. I heard t!ie soldiers in the house telling my father how the rebels, as thev Killed them, had all been defeated and made prisoners, and that the gallant Derwent- water was in the Tower, and squire Foster in a place they call Newgate. The uncle and the nephew exchanged looki with each other — they were looks of grief. "Letusfight for it, Mark," said Launcelot, bitterly ; "and if we can't escape from the country, we shall die in tli<> attempt. I say, girl, it is not in your power to conceal us ; but vour father has arms in the house— pistols, powder. TALES OF TnE BORDERS OC)«J bullets — get us them ! If ynu love nlark— if yjt- would ^ve him a chance for his life — ^o bring them !" Her head fell as if lifeless on her lover's arm. " Sally ! Sally dear !" said he. and he kissed her chcH'fe n« Le spoke — " look up — speak to us — we cannot slay — {let us the pistols — we shall meet hereafter I" •• Hereafter I" repeated the agonized girl ; " no, w, rou cannot go — you could not escape. 'J'hey are still in search of you over the whole cowntrv." She was silent f(ir a few moments, and again added — " I think — I think I could conceal voii for a few days — perhaps until they have done •earching for you in these parts. There is a pea-stack behind the house here ; the straw is loose on the top of it, and the wind can't reach it. I think no one would hud you there, and I could bring vou food every night." "Bless thee, my own sweet one!" said IMark. "Av, Mess her, indeed !" added Launcelot — " she is a good She conducted them to the pea-stack ; and when she had Seen the straw drawn over them, she stole again to the house. Each night she visited them, communicating to them, in inxious whisperings, all that she had heard during the day, aud of the search that was still made after them. But, al- though her father was fond of Mark, she feared to commu- nicate to him what she had done ; for a traitor's death was denounced against any one who should be found guilty of harbouring or concealing the Erringtons. On the third day after their concealment, the two soldiers who were billeted in the liouse came forth, and leaning against the stack, began to pull the peas from it. " It is plaguy strange," said the one to the other, " that nothing has been heard about these fellows, the Erringtons. I thought, when we were sent here, that we stood a good chance of dividing the reward between us ; for I expected, from all that I had heard, to find the young one skulking about the place." "And I believe he is nearabouts, too," answered the other; " I could swear the girl Sally knows where he is. I observe she watches every step we take." So saying, they returned to the house, leaving the fugi- tives, for whose lives they sought, and who had overheard them, with the disagreeable consciousness that the neigh- Sourhood in which they were concealed was more than sus- jjccted. Nine davs passed on, and thev remained undis- covered in their painful hiding-place. But, on the tenth nijrht, the thrasher or barn-man came into the room where Mr Beadnell and his family sat, and inquired, " What stack he should begin to thrash next .''" " The pea-stack, John," answered Mr Beadnell. " No ! oh no ! it must not be thrashed to-morrow !" ex- claimed his daughter hurriedly ; and her looks yet more plainly bespoke her agitation. The barn-man was a shrewd man, and he failed not to observe her confusion, and while he kept his eye hxed upon tier, he began to ruminate on its cause. " What do you mean, Sally, love ?" inquired her father ; " why may not the stack be thrashed to-morrow f" " Because — because," answered she falteringly, " I wish . — John to go to Alnwick for me". '• Oh, very well," replied her father — " he may go." "Very well," repeated the barn-man; " at what hour must I be ready, Jla'am f" But there was a withering smile on his face as he spoke. He looked as a man who has found =1 treasure, and wishes to conceal it. " At six," faltered the trembling girl. "When the barn-man withdrew, iMr Beadnell desired his other children to go into the kitchen, and said — " 1 must speak to you, Sally." She placed her hands before her eyes and sobbed aloud. " Come dear," said he, soothingly, " I am not angry with you ; but you have not acted fairly with me- Sally. You know \vhere Mark Errington is — you have .. him iiled.' Father" tnthor • \hr exclniir.ed, wrinp- iiig her liands — " oli, do not betray my poor Mark !" " •'«!► betray him ! silly .t'rl !" said he ; " wf;.y would you not trum your father? — you knew that 1 was liis fiiend. You have betrayed him, Sally ." ' Oh ! no, no !" she cried — " do not say so ! how have 1 betr.-.yed him '(" " Is he not concealed about the pea-stack f" added he. " Yes," replied she, tremblingly, and wejit the moie; " he and his uncle have l)een concealed there these nine days." " Nine days !" said her father ; " Sally, vou are a strange girl. I sus pected that you knew where tiu'y were ; but now the old knave of a birn-man knows where they are ahio, and before morning he will lietray them. Thev must leave this place this very hour, or their blood will be on our head." The father and his daughter crept slowly to the stack where the fugitives lay. They informed them of their [dace ot retreat being known ; ami the honest farmer, furnishing them with money, provisi{)ns, and tlie garb of couiitrvmen> urged them to tly for their lives, and ottered up a brief but earnest prayer for their protection. The parting of Mark and Sally was abrupt but agoniz> ing ; and even his uncle let fall a tear upon her hand, as he took it to bid her farewell. Within three hours from the time of their departure, and when the family had retired to rest, but neither the father nor his daughter to sleep, the barn-man, with a party of soldiers fnmi the castle, arrived, and surrounding the stack, they thrust their bayonets into it, and began to level it with the ground. Disappointed in finding their expected prey, tliey proceeded to search the house, which Mr Beadnell said they were welcome to do ; and, taking his treacherous ser- vant by the throat, he dragged him to the door, in the pre- sence of the soldiers, flinging his wages after him. Concealing themselves in the moors by day, and travelling by night, on the third night after leaving Bamborough, Launcelot and his nephew arrived at Gateshead House, where they obtained shelter ; and, after remaining there a few days, hearing of a vessel that was about to sail from Sunderland to PVance, the gentleman who was then conceal- ing them procured them a passage in her. They arrived at Sunderland about midnight, and, before daybreak, once more breathed tlieir ocean air upon its bosom. After their arrival in France, Mark kept up his corres- pondence with Sally Beadnell, trusting to see better days, and cheering her with the hope that thev would see them. In one of her letters, there was the following passage — • " A neighbour of ours, the rich old man that always nsed to try to set my father against you, and strive to get him to marry me .to him, has got your uncle's ship, tihe was 'fiscated, I think they call it. He got it for a mere trifle — father says for nothing at all, but for some low work that he did for the government. She was brought into North Sunderland, and I hear is to sail for some place they call Hamburgh ; and if that be anyway near where you are, I think it is a pity but that you and your uncle could go there and take her — for every man has a right for his own." So wrote Sally Beadnell. Mark shewed the letter to his un- cle. " Nevy," said Launcelot, after perusing it, " 1 always said S;illy was a sensible girl. I'll buy her her wedding- dress for that letter. We will otf to Hamburgh to-morrow. The brig is mine ! No man, no king, nobody had a right to take her from me. 1 bought her with my own money — I have ventured my life in her. She shall be mine again. 1 say it! Let us make ready for Hamburgh, i\Iark." Two days before the brig was to sail from Hamburgh for London, two strangers, apparently German merchants, wea- ring beards and mustachios, came on board, and in broken English bargained for their passage. The terms were agreee Sims, and were resolved to humble them. An opportunity for them to do so soon occurred. A sub- scription ball or assembly, patronised by all the fashitMiables in the district, was to take place at Keswick. JIrs Sim, in some measure from a desire of disjilay, and also, as she said, to bring out Maria, put down her husband's name, her owii, and their daughter's, on the list. Many of the personages above referred to, on seeing the names of the Sim family on the subscription paper, turned upon their heel, and exclaimed • — " Shocking !" But the important evening arrived. Mrs Sim had ordered ft superb dress from London expressly for the occasion. A duchess might have worn it at a djawing-room. The dress of JIaria was simplicity typified, and consisted of a frock of the finest and the whitest muslin; while her slender waist was girdled with a lavender ribbon, her raven hair descended down her snowy neck in ringlets, and around her head slie wore a ^\Teath of roses. When 5Ir Sim, with his wife and daughter, entered the Tootn, there was a stare of wonderment amongst the com- pany. No one spoke to them, no one bowed to them. The spirit of dumbness seemed to have smitten the assembly. But a general whispering, like the hissing of a congregation of adders, succeeded the silence. Then, at the head of the room, the voices of women rose sharp, angiy, and loud. Six or eight, who appeared as the representatives of the company, were in earnest and excited conversation with the stewards; and the words, " low people !" — " vulgar !" — " not to be borne !" — " cheese ! faugh !" — " impertinence !" — " must be humbled !" — became audible throughout the room. One of the stewards, a Mr Morris of Morris House, approached Mr Sim, and said — " You, sir, are JMr Sim, I believe, late grocer and cheese- monger in Carlisle .''" " 1 suppose, sir," replied the other, ' you know that without me telling you — if you do not, you have some right to know me." " Well, sir," continued the steward of the assemblv, ' I eome to inform you that you have made a mistake. 'This is not a social dance amongst tradesmen, but an assembly of ladies and gentlemen ; therefore, sir, j-our presence cannot be allowed here." Poor Maria became blind, the hundred different head- dresses seemed to float around her. She clung to her father's aim for support. Her mother was in an agony of indignation. " Sir," said Mr Sim, " I don't know what }-ou call gen- llenicn, but if it be not genteel to have sold teas and gro- ceries, it is at least more honourable than to use them and Tierer pay for them. You will remember, sir, there is five hundred pounds standing against you in my books ; and if the money be not paid to me to-night, you shall have less gpace to dance in before morning." " Insolent barbarian !" exclaimed Squire Moms, stamping his foot upon the floor. JIrs Sim screamed — JIaria's head fell upon her father's shoulder. A dozen gentlemen approached to the support of the steward ; and one of them, waving hisjh^nd and address- ing Mr Sim, said — " Away, sir !" The retired merchant bowed and withdrew, jiot in confu- sion, but with a smile of malignant triumph. He strove to soothe his wife — for his daughter, ■when rcTieved from the presence of the disdainful eyes that gazed on her, bore the insult that had been offered them meekly — and, after remain- ing an hour in Keswick, they returned to their vilh^ in the Sttiiie chaise in which they had an-ivcd. In the a.ssembly room, the dance began, and fairy forms glided tliBeugh the floor, lightly, silently, as a falling blossom I embiaceth the eartt. Mr Morris was leading down a d.hicc ivhen a noise was heard at the door. Some person insisted on being admitted, and the door-keepers resisted him. But the intruder carried with him a small staff, on the one end of which was a brass cro«Ti, and on its side the letters G. R. It was a talisman potent as the wand of a magician; the door-keepers became powerless before it. The intruder entered the room — he passed through the mazes of the whirling dance — he approached 3Ir Jlorris — he touched him on the shoulder — he put a piece of paper in Ids hand- he whispered in his ear — " You are my prisoner ! — come inth me !" His lady and his daughters Avere present, and they felt most bitterly the indignity which a low tradesman had offer- ed them. Confusion paralysed them ; they stood still in the middle of the dance, and one of the young ladies swooned away and fell upon the ground. The time, the place, the manner of the arrest, all bespoke malignant and premedi- tated insult. Mr Morris gnashed his teeth together, but, without speak- ing, accompanied the officer that had jirrested him in the room. He remained in custody in an adjoining inn through- out the night ; on the following day, was released on bail ; and, %rithin a week, his solicitor paid the debt by augment- ing the mortgage on Morris House estate. It is hardly necessary to say (for such is human nature 1 that, after this incident, the hatred between 3Ir Sim and Squire Morris became inveterate ; and the wives of both, and the daughters of the latter, partook in the relentless animo- sity. Two years passed, and every day the mutual hatred and contempt in which they held each other increased. At that period, a younger son of Squire ^lorris, who was a lieutenant in the service of the East India Company, oh- tained leave to visit England and his friends. It was early in June ; the swallows chased each other in sport, twittering as the}' flew over the blue bosom of Windermere. Every bush, every tree — ^-ea, it seemed as if every branch sent fortl the music of singing birds, and the very air was redolent with melody, from the bold songs of the thrush and the lark to the love note of the wood-pigeon ; and even the earth re- joiced in the chirp of the grasshopper — its tiny but pleasant musician. The fields and the leaves were in the loveliness and freshness of youth, luxuriating in the sunbeams, in the depth of their summer green; and the buttei-fly sported, and the bee pursued its errand from flower to flower. The mighty mountains circled the scene, and threw their dun shadow on the lake, where, a thousand fathom deep, they seemed a bronzed and inverted world. At this time. Jlaria Sim was sailing upon the lake in a small boat that her fa- ther had purchased for her, and which was guided by a boy. A sudden, but not what could be called a strong breeze, came away. The boy had little strength and less skill, and I from his awkwardness in shifting the sail, he caused theboatj to overset. Maria was immersed in the lake. The boy clung to the boat, Imt terror deprived him of ability to render he assistance. She struggled with the waters, and her garment bore her partially up for a time. A boat, in which was young gentleman, had been sailing to and fro, and, at the time the accident occurred, was within three hundred yardsj of her. On hearing her sudden cry, and the continued screams of the boy, he drew in his sail, and, taking the oar at his utmost strength pulled to her assistance, -'\lmost •,\^ every third stroke he turned round his head to see the pre gross be had made, or if he had yet reached her. Twice he beheld her disappear beneath the water — a third time shfl rose to the surface — he was within a few yards of her. Ha sprang from his boat. She was again sinking. He divetlj after her, he raised her beneath his arm, and succeeded inl placing her in his boat — he also rescued the boy, and ccn-j vcycd them both to land. ilaria, though for a time speechless, was speedily, througbl TALES OF THE BOllDEllS. 22? tlip exertions oHil-i upllvcror, restored to consciousness. Even littore she was ca|i;iljle of tliankinj; liiiii or of speaking to him — yea, before her eyes had opened to meet his — he had Ciizcd with admiration on lier heautifiil features, which were loveiy, though the sliadow of dealii was then over them, almost its hand upon them. In truth, he liail nevor gazed upon a fairer face, and wlien slie spiilie he liad never listened to a sweeter or a gentler voice, lie had been beneath an Indian sun, where the impulses of the heart are fervid as the clime, and where, when the sun is gazed upon, its iii- lluence is acknowledged. Hut, had she been less beautiful than she was, ami her features less lovely to look upon, there was a strong souiethiiig in the very manner and acciilent of their being brought into each other's societv, which appealed more puwerfuUv to the heart than beauty could. It, at least, begot an interest in the fate of each other ; and an interest, so called, is never very widely separated from alfection. The individual who had saved iMaria's life was Lieutenant iM orris. He conveyed her (irst to a peasant's cottage, and after, wards to her father's villa. lie knew nothing of the feeling of hatred that existed between their families ; and wlien l\Ir Sim heard his name, though for a moment it caused a glow to ]iass over iiis face, every other emotion was speedily swallowed up in gratitude towards the deliverer of his child ; and when Maria was sulHcientlv recovered to thank liim, though she knew him to be the son of her father's enemy, it was with tears too deeji for words — tears that told what eloquence would have failed to express. Even Jlrs Sim, for the time, forgot her hatred of the parents in lier obliga- tions to the son. When, however, the young lieutenant returned to Jlorris House, and made mention of the adventure in which he had been engaged, and spoke, at the same time, in the ardour of youthful admiration, of the beauty and gentleness of the fair ()eing lie had rescued from untimely death, the cheeks of his sisters became ])ale, their eyeballs distended as if with horror. The word " wretch!" escaped from his mother's lips, and she seemed struggling with smothered rage. He turned towards his father for an explanation of the change that had so sud- denly come over the behaviour of his mother and sisters. " Son !" said the Squire, " I had rather thou hadst perish- ed than that a son of mine should have put forth his hand to assist a dog of the man u hose daughter thou liast saved!" On being made acquainted with the cause of the detesta- tion that existed between the two families. Lieutenant Mor- ris, in some degree, yielded to the whisperings of wounded pride, and began to regret that he had entered the house of a man who had offered an indignity to his father that was not to be forgiven. But he thouglit also of the beauty of Maria, of the sweetness of her smile, and of the tears of voiceless gratitude which he had seen bedimming the lustre of her bright eyes. He had promised to call again at her father's on the day after the accident ; and with an ardent kindliness Mr Sim had welcomed him to do so. But he went forth, he wan. dered by the side of the lake, he approached within sight of the house, there was a contention of strange feelings in his breast, and he returned without jiaying his promised visit. Nevertheless, thoughts of JIaria haunted him, and her image mingled with all his fancies. She became as a spirit in his memory tliat he could not expel, and that he would not if he could. Three weeks ]iassed on — it was evening — the sun was sinking behind the mountains, and Lieutenant Jlorris was wandering through a wooded vale, towards i\Ir Sim's man- sion ; for, though he entered it not, he nightly drew to\\ards !t, as if instinctively, wandering .round it, and gazing on its windows as he did so, marvelling as he gazed. He was ab- sorbed in one of those dreamy reveries in which men saunter, s|H;ak, and muse unconsciously, whenl in following the wind iugs of a footpath which led through a thicket, he gndileniy louuem. Farewell, love ! — farewell ! If" Emotion and the strugglings of death overpovrered lier — . her speech failed — her eyes became fixed — her soul jiassed away, and the husband sat in stupefaction and in agony, holding the hand of his dead wife to his breast. He became conscious that she stirred not — that she breathed not — oh ! that she was not ! — and the wail of the distracted widower rang suddenly and wildly through the cottage, startling his infants from their slumber, and, as some who stood round the bed said, causing even the features of the dead to move, as though the departed spirit had lingered, casting a fare- well glance upon the body, and passed over it again, as tlie voice it had loved to hear rose loud in agony. The father of Maria came and attended her body to its last, long resting-place. But he did no more; and he lelt the churchyard without acknowledging that he perceived his grief-stricken son-in-law. In a few months it was nccestary for Lieuiei.<.nt Jlorris to return to India, and he could not take his motherless and tender infants thither. He wrote to the parents of hi.s departed Maria ; he told them of her last request, breathed by her last words ; he implored them, as they had once loved her, during his absence to protect his children. i^u tUc hatred between .Air Sim and Sauire Iklorris Ixid i-23 TALES OF THE BORDERS. in no degree abated. The tormer wuuia have listened tn his drmghtcr's praj-er, and taken lier twins and the nurse into his house; but his ■wife was less susceptible to the influence of natural feeling, and even, while at intervals she wept for poor Jfaria, she said — " Take both of them, indeed ! No ! no ! I loved our poor, thoughtless, disobedient Maria, IMr Sim, as well as 3'ou did, but I will not submit to the Blorrises. They have nothing to give the children — we have. But thej' have the same, they have a greater right to provide for them than we have. They shall take one of them, or none of them come into this house." And again she broke into lamentations over the memory of Jlaria, and, in the midst of her mourning, ex- claimed — " But the child that we take shall never be called iloms." IMr Sim ;\Tote an answer to his son-in-law, as cold and formal as if it had been a note added to an invoice — colder, indeed, for it had no equivalent to the poor, hacknied phrase in all such, oi ^'' eslcevied fnrouia." In it he stated that he would " bring up" one of the children, provided that Squire Mon'is would undertake the charge of the other. The unhappy father clasped his hands together on perusing the letter, and exclaimed — " Must my poor babes be parted.'' — shall they be brought up to hate each other .'' O Maria ! would that I had died with you, and our children also !" To take them to India with him, where a war was threat- ened, was impossible, and his heart revolted from the thought of leaving them in this country with strangers. At times lie was seen, with an infant son on each arm, sitting over the stone upon the grave of their mother which he had reared to her memory, kissing their cheeks and weeping over them, while they smiled in his face unconsciously, and offered to him, in those smiles, affection's first innocent tribute. On such occasions, their nurse stood gazing on the scene, won- dering at her master's grief. Morris, of Morris House, reluctantly consented to take one of his grandchildren under his care ; but, at the same time, he refused to see his son previous to his departure. The widowed father wept over his twin sons, and invok- ing a blessing on them, saw their little arms sundered, and eacli conveyed to the houses of those who had undertaken to be their protectors, while he again proceeded towards India. The names of the twins were George and Charles ; the former was committed to the care of JMr Jlorris, the other to Mr Sim. Yet it seemed as if these innocent pledges of a family union, instead of destroying, strengthened the deep- rooted animosity that existed between them. Not a month passed that they did not, in some way, manifest their hatred of, and their persecution towards each other. The Squire exhibited a proof of his vindictiveness, in not permitting the child of his son to remain beneath his roof. lie had a small property in Devonshire, which was rented by an individual who, vat\\ his wife, had been servants under his father. To them George Moiris, one of the infant sons of poor Maria, before he was yet twelve months old, was sent, with an injunction that he should be brought up as their outi son, that he should be taught to consider him- self as such, and bear their name. The boy Charles, whose lot it was to be placed under the protection of his mother's parents, was more fortunate. The love they had borne towards their Maria they now lavished upon him. They called him by their O'lm name — they spoke of him as their heir, as their sole heir, and they in- quired not after his brother, lliat brother became included in the hatred which Mrs Sim, at least, bore to his father's family. As he gi-ew up, his father's name was not mention- ed in his presence. He was taught to call his grandfather — father; and his grandmother — mother; ai\d, withal, his mother, so called, instilled into his earliest thoughts an ab- torrence of the inmates of Morris House. At times, his grandfather whispered to her on such occasions — '• Do not do the like of that, dear — we know not how it may end." But she regarded not his admonitions, and she strove thai her prandchild should hold the very name of Morris in hatred. 'I'he peasants to whose keeping George was confided, oc- cupied, as has been stated, a small farm under his grandfather which lay on the banks of the Dart, a few miles from Tot- ness. Their name was Prescot ; they were cold-hearted and ignorant people ; they had no children of their own, nor af- fection for those of others ; neither had they received instruc- tions to shew any to him whom they were to adopt as a son ; and, if they had been arraigned for not doing so, they were of a character to have said, with Shylock — " It is not in the bond." When he grew up, there was then no school in that part of Devonshire to which they could have sent him, had they been inclined — but they were not inclined ; though, if they had had the power to educate him, they coidd have refeiTed again to their bond, and said that no injvmction to educate him was mentioned there. His first ideas were a consciousness of cruelty and oppression. At seven years of age he was sent to herd a few sheep upon Dartmoor; before he was nine, he was placed as a parish apprentice to the o^^Tier of a tin mine, and buried from the light of heaven. Often and anxiously Lieutenant 51 orris wrote from India, inquiring after his sons. He sent presents — love gifts to each ; but his letters were unheeded, his presents disregarded. His children grew up in ignorance of his existence, or of the existence of each other. It was about eighteen 3'ears after the death of Maria, and what is called an annual Revel was held at Ashburton. Prizes were to be awarded to the best WTestlers, and hundreds were assembled from all parts of Devonshire to witness the sports of the day. Two companies of soldiers were stationed in the tol^^l at the time, and the officers, at the suggestion of a young ensign, called Charles Sim, agreed to subscribe a purse of ten guineas towards the encouragement of the games. The young ensign was from Cumberland, where .he science of wrestling is still a passion, and he, as the reader will have anticipated from the name he bore, was none other than one of the twin brothers. The games were skilfullv and keenly contested; and a stripling fi-om the neighbourhood ofTotness, amidst the shouts of the multitude, was dechired the ^^ctor. The last he had overcome was a gigantic soldier, a native of Cumberland. When the young ensign beheld his cham- pion overcome, his blood rose for the honour of his nat'^ e county, and he regretted that he had not sustained it in his own person. The purse subscribed by the oflScers was still to be wrestled for, and the stripling victor re-entered the ring to com- pete for it. On his design being perceived, others who wished to have contended for it drew back, and he stood in the ring alone, no one daring to come forward to compete with him. The umpire of the games was proclaiming that, if no one stood against him, the purse would be awarded to him who had already been pronounced the victor of the dav, when Ensign Sim, who, with his brother officers, had wit- nessed the sports from the windows of an adjacent inn, said — " Well, the lad shall have the purse, though I don't ex- pect he will win it ; for, if no one else will, I shall give him a throw, to redeem the credit of old Cumberland." " Bravo, Sim ! " cried his brother officers, and they accom- panied him towards the ring. The people again shouted when they perceived that there was to be another game, and the more so when they disco- vered that the stranger competitor was a gentleman. The ensign, having cast ofi' his regimentals, and equipped himself in th'^ strait canvass jacket worn by wrestlers, entered the ring But now arose a new subject of wonderment, which in a moment was perceived by the whole multitude ; and the loud huzzas that had welcomed his approach were hushed in a confused niunnuj- of astonishment. TALES OF THE BORDERS. 229 "ZwiiijTfi. ' exclaimed ;v hiimlred voices, as tliey approach- ed each otlier, " tlioy be loilc one anootlicr as two l)eans !" " Wlioy, wliiili be wliicii ?" iii(|iiin'd others. 'liie likeness l)etwcen the two wrestlers was, indeed, re- markaliie ; their ajjc, their stature, the colour of their liair, their I'catures, were alike. Spectators could not trace a dil- fcrenco between the one and the other. The ensij^'n liad a small and peculiar mark below his chin — he perceived that Ids antajjonlst had the sanie. They aji|iri)aclied each other, extending their arms for the contest. Tiiey stood still, thev pazed upon ea<'h other; as they jjazcd they started — their arms dropped by their sides — they stood anxiously scruli- nizinp; the countenance of each other, in which each saw himself as in n glass. Astonislimcnt deprived them of strength — tlieyforj;ot the purpose for which thev met — they stretched forth their hands, they grasjied them together, and stfod eagerly looking into each other's eves. " Friend," said the ensign, "this is indeed singular — our extraordinary resemblance to each other fills nie with amazement. AVhat is your luunc .' — from whence do you come ?" " U'hoy, master," rejoined tlie other, " thou art so woundv like myself, that had I met thee anywhere but in the middle o' these folk, I slumld have been afeared that I was agoing to die, and had zeen niysel. I\Iy name is George I'rescot, at your sarvice. I cooin from tliree miles down the river there — and what may they call thee ?" " I\Iy name," replied the soldier, " is Charles Sim. I am an orphan ; my parents I never saw. And tell me — for this strange resemblance between us almost overpowers me — do vours live ?" " \\'hoy," was the reply, "old Tom Prescot and his woif be alive; and iheyzay as how they lie ray vatherand moother, and I zuppose they be; but zoom cast up to them that they bean't." No wTestling match took place between them ; but hand in hand they walked round the ring together, while the spectators gazed upon them in silent wonder. The ensign presented the youth, who might have been styled Wis fac-sitnili', with the purse subscribed by his brother officers and himself; and, in so doing, he offered to double its contents. But the youth, with a spirit above his condition, peremptorily refused the oft'er, and said — " No, master — tluink you the zame — I will take nothing but what I have won." (Jbarlcs was anxious to visit " old Tom Prescot and his wife," of whom the stranger had spoken ; but the company to which he belonged was to march forward to Plymouth on the following day, and there to embark. His brother otRcers also dissuaded him from the thought. " AVhy, Sim," said thev, " the likeness between you and the conqueror of the ring was certainly a very pretty coin- cidence, and your meeting each other cjuite a drama. But, my good fellow," added they, laughing, '-take the advice of older heads than your own — don't examine too closely into your father's faults." Three years passed, and Charles, now promoted to tlie Tank of a lieutenant, accompanied the Duke of York in his more memorable than brilliant campaign in Holland. A soldier was accused of having been found sleeping on guard; he was tried, found guiltv, and condemned to be shot. A corporal's guard was accompanying the doomed soldier from the place where sentence had been prommnced against him to the prison-house, from whence ho was to be brought forth for execution on the following day. Lieutenant Sim passed ne,-ir them. A voice exclaimed — '' Jlaster ! master ! — save me ! save me !" It was the voice of the condemned soldier. The lieute- nant turned round ; and in the captive who called to him for assistance, he recognised the Devonshire wrestler — the Btiange portrait of himself And even now, if it were pos- sible, the resemblance between tiiem was more striking than hi'fore; for, in the stranger, tlie awkwardness of the peasant had given place to the smartness of the soldier. Ciiarles ii(i/l f\ one mom when sleet ilung frozen round the traveller's feet. By a grey ruin on Tweedsidc, The creature laid her down and died." — Border Ballad, More than three hundred j'ears have elapsed since the people called Gipsies first made their appearance in this country ; and, from all that I have heen able to trace con- cerning them, it seems to have been aliout the same period that a number of their tribes or families proceeded north- ■n-ards, and became dwellers and wanderers on the Borders. Their chief places of resort, and where, during the incle- mency of winter, they horded or housed together, were, Kirk Yetholm, Rothbury, Horncliff, Spittal, andTweedmouth. I believe that there are none of them now in Horncliff, which, on the bringing in of the moor, ceased to be a refuge for them ; and there are but few in Spittal. But, in Rothbury and Kirk Yetholm, they still abound, and of late years have increased inTweedmouth — that is, during the winter season; for they take to the hedges as soon as the primrose appears, and begin their wanderings. The principal names borne by the different tribes in these parts are Faa, Young, Gordon, Bailie, Blyth, Ruthven, and Winter. Their occupations are chiefly as itinerant muggers or potters, horners or " cuttie- spoon" makers, tinkers or smiths and tin-workers, and makers of besoms and foot-basses. They are still, with very few exceptions, a wandering and unlettered race, such as their fathers were when they first entered Britain. At Kirk Yetholm, however — which is their seat of royalty on ihe Borders, and where they have a lease of the houses in what is called Tinkler Row, for nineteen times nineteen years, on payment of a quit rent — they have not been so neglectful of the education of their children as in other parts of the country. At the period of their first appearance in this kingdom, the land was overrun with thieves and vagabonds, who, in the severe and sanguinary laws of Queen Elizabeth and her father Harry, were described as " loi/lerers" and " sturdy beg- gars;" and it is more than probable that many of these, finding the mode of life followed by the gipsies congenial to them, associated with or intermarried amongst them, and so became as a part of them ; and this may account for many calling themselves gipsies, having European, or, I may say, British features. But the real gipsy there is no mistaking — their dark piercing eyes and Asiatic countenance mark them as distinctly as do the eyes and peculiar features of a Jew. (By the by, I wonder that no searcher after the marvellous has endeavoured to prove them to be a remnant of the lost tribes of Israel.) Like the Jews, they are scattered over the whole earth — like them, they are found in every land; and in every land they remain a distinct people. No. 30. YoL. I. Who theyarc, or whence they came, are ijuestions involved in considerable mystery. Their being called Gipsies or Egyp- tians in this country, I hold to be a popular error which they themselves propagated. Egyj)t, from the earliest period, was distinguished above all lands for its soothsayers and divin- ers ; and, as the chief occupation of the wanderers then was (and in many places still is) fortune-telling, they had cun- ning enough to profess to bo Egy])tians, or natives of the land wherein was taught the mysteries of rolling away the clouds which conceal fate and futurity. They have neither the language nor the manners of the Egyptians. No reason could he assigned for their leaving the land of the Pharaohs ; and, although the gipsies of the present day profess to be Egyptians, they can bring forward no proof in support of the pretension. From all that I have read concerning them, it seems to me to be clearly proved, that they are natives ol Hindostan, where they formed a part of the lowest caste of Indians, called Pariars or Suders — a class held in detestation and abhorrence by the other castes. That the gipsy clana have a language peculiar to themselves, and which they fre- quently speak amongst themselves, is well known. It is not a written language; and they have endeavoured to conceal a knowledge of it from the people amongst whom they dwell. They have called it gibberisli; and it has been very generally believed to be nothing more than what is usually understood by that term, or that at most it was a sort of slang, similar to the phrases used among thieves. This is an error. So far as those who have examined it have been able to ascer- tain, the secret language spoken by the British gipsies appears to be, with but trifling corruptions, the same as that which is spoken by the Indian caste of Suders in Hindostan. * But a stronger proof that the gipsies scattered over Europe derive their origin from the Suders of India is demonstrated by the facts that the Suders were the only people who pro- fessed the art of palmistry — that they, like the gipsies, are a wandering race — that their occupations are almost identi- cally the same, being fortune-tellers, dancers, and wander- ing musicians — that the smiths amongst them go about ex- actly in the same manner as the tinkers in this country — that, like the gipsies, their favourite food is that of animals that have died of disease — that, like them, they have no fixed religion — and, like them, they endeavour to conceal their language. And the certainty of their being originally the same people is further strengthened, from the Suders having fled in thousands from India, during the murderous ravages of Timur Beg in 1408, which corresponds with the period of the first appearance of the gipsies in Europe. And that they are not Egyptians is strongly proved by the fiict, that there are tribes of them in Egypt, where, as in other countries, they are regarded as strangers and foreigners. * 1 shall subjoin a few words as specimens, from the comparative glo saries of Grellmann and Richardson — En^tiuh. An Aunt Fish The Ear A House A I.nrd MotJicr Food The Nos» 8ut Gipfy. Hi ntlostanee liehie Beebe Mu tehee Mucliee Can Kan Gur Ghur Riah Raye Dai J)aee Mass Mas Nark Nak LOOD. LooD 234 TALES OF TEE BORDERS. I may have wearied the patience of tlie reader ^vith this long and perhaps prosy introduction ; but there may be some to whom it will not be uninteresting, as throwing a light on the probable origin of a singular people, of whom Judith the gipsy was one. And now to our story. One of the chief men amongst the gipsies on the Borders, at the beginning of tlie last century, was Lussha Fleckie, who was only inferior in authority among the tribes to King Faa, who dwelt at Kirk Yetholm, and boasted cf reigning lord over a free people. Lussha's avocations, like the avoca- tions of all bis brethren, were mere apologies for idleness. He was one day a tinker, on another a grinder, and on a third a wandering piper. He was a man of great stature and uncommon strength, and renowned for his exploits as a fisher and a sportsman. The name of his wife was IMariam, and they had a daugh- ter called Judith, wlio, as she grew up towards womanhood, became known throughout Roxburgh and Northumberland as the Gipsy Beauty — or the Beautiful Gipsy. The appella- tion was not unnieritedly bestowed; for, though her skin was slightly tinged with the tawnj'hue of herrace, a soul seemed to glow through her regular and lovely features, and the lustre of her dark eyes to throw a radiance over them. She was tall, and her figure was perfect as her face — it was symmetrical and commanding. Yet she was at once con- scious of her beauty and vain of it, and her parents admi- nistered to her vanity. They had her fingers adorned with trinkets, her neck with bugles; for Lussha Fleckie, like most of his race, was fond of gold and silver ornaments ; and, amongst others, he had in his possession a silver urn, which had been handed down to him through generations, and in which his fathers, as he now did, had deposited the fruits of their spoils and plunder, until it was filled with rich coins as a miser's coffer. He therefore, although a vagrant, was not a poor man, and could afford to deck the charms of his daugh- ter. Judith was early initiated by her mother into the mys- teries of the sibyline leaves — her education indeed extended no farther; and, at the age of fifteen, she was an adept in the art of palmistry. The proudest ladies in broad North- umberland or fair Roxburghshire, eagerly submitted their hands to the inspection of the beautiful fortune-teller. The searching brightness of her dark eyes seemed to give a pro- phetic reality to her words ; and, as she caused them to kindle with apparent joy or become transfixed at the disco- very of coming wo, her fair and high-born patrons have trembled before her, and inquired — " What is it, Judith }" And, being a favourite with them all, for they both loved and feared her, her person was bedecked with their cast-off gar- ments. It was early in summer when about forty of the Faa people encamped near the foot of the Eildon hills. A few minutes served for the erection of their portable village in a secure and sheltered situation, and speedily, supported on pieces of crossed branches, the caldrons swung over the crackling fires, each of which blazed fierce and merrily from between two stones. Savoury exhalations impregnated the air, and gave token of a feast. The banquet being spread upon the sward, when it was finished, and the brandy cup had been sent round, Lussha Fleckie took up his Northum- brian pipes and began to play a merry reel. Old and young, men, women, and children, started to their, feet, and joyous " Tripped tlie light fantastic toe." Judith glided through the midst of them, with Iver bright waving tresses falling on her shoulders, as queen of the glad scene. Of her it might have been said — " A foot more lipht, a step more true. Never from Iieatli-flowcr dashed tlie dew ; Even the light harebell raised its head. Elastic from her airy tread !" Her partner in the dance was Gemmcl Graeme ; and in his veins al.sn flowed gipsy blood. Gemmcl v/as now a youth of twenty, and one of the most during oi his race. A passion ate enthusiasm marked his disposition. In agile sports and feats of strength he had no competitor. In these he was what Lussha Fleckie had been. He boasted of his inde- pendence, and that he had never placed a finger or the pro- perty of friend or neighbour, nor been detected iu levying his exactions on a stranger or a foe. His merits were ac- knowledged by all the tribes on the Borders; and, though he was not of the royal family of Faas, many looked to him as heir-apparent to the sovereignty. He held in princely contempt all trades, professions, and callings, and thought it beneath the dignity of a " lord of creation" to follow them. When, therefore, he accompanied the tribes in their migra- tions from place to place, he did not, as was the habit of others, assume the occupation of either tinker, grinder, bass- manufacturer, or the profession of a musician — but he went forth with his gun and his hound, or his leister and net, and every preserve, plantation, and river supplied him with food, and the barns of strangers with bread. Judith was two years younger than Gemmel Graeme, and he had not looked upon her lovely face with inditference ; for the stronger passions, and the gentlerfeelings of the soul, find a habitation in the breast of the wandering gipsy as in those of other men. He had a bold manly bearing, and an expressive countenance. Judith, too, had seen much of his exploits. She had beheld him to the neck in water, struggle with the strong salmon, raise it up, a^d cast it on the shore. She, too, had witnessed instances of his daring spirit, and in every sport had seen all vanquished who dared to contend with him. Yea, when the scented blossom, like fragrant fleece, overspread the hawthorn hedge-rows, and the prim- rose and wild voilet flowered at its roots — when the evening star shone glorious in the west, brightening through the deepening twilight — when the viewless cuckoo sighed "good night" to its mate, and the landrail took up its evening cry — then have Judith and Gemmel eat together, by the hedge- side, at a distance from the encampment, with her hand in his. Then he would tell her of the feats he had achieved, of the wrestling matches he had won, or the leaps he had made, and, pressing her hand, add — " But what care 1 for what I do, or for what others sa}', when the bright een o' my bonny Judith werena there to reward me wi' a blink o' joy!" " Ye're a flatterer, Gemmel," whispered she. " No, bonniest," answered he, " I deny that ; I am nae flatterer. But if I were, ye are far beyont flattery sic as mine ; and it is nane to say, that to my een ye are bonnier than yon gowden star, that shines by its single sel' in ihe wide heavens^and to me ye are dearer than the mountain is to the wild doer, or the green leaves to the singing birds." Then he would press his lips to hers, and she bluslicd but upbraided him not. But, in the character of Judiih, as in that of every woman over whose bosom vanitvwavethits but- terfly wings, there was something of the coquette. She did not at all times meet the affections of Gemmel with mutual tenderness, though she loved liim beyond any one else, and was proud to see him wear her yoke. She had often smiied upon others, while her eyes glanced cold as illuminated ice upon him. Yet never was ther« one on whom she so smiled that repented not having courted or obtained it. For, as Gemmel's hand was strong and his love passionate, so was his jealousy keen and his revenge insatiate. There were cripples in the tribe, who owed their lameness to the hand of Gemmel, because, in some instiince, Judith had shewn a capricious preference to them while she slighted him. Now, as has been said, it was a day of feasting and re- joicing amongst them, and Judiih was Gemmel's partner in the dance. AY alter, tlie young heir of Riccon, was riding round the Eildons, with his grey goshawk upon his arm, ana his servant followed him; and bearing sounds of niusicand shouts of revelry, he turned in the direction from whence thev proceeded. Ho drew up his horse withia a few jiudr TALES OF THE BOKDERS. 2,3i if lli» merry group, niul. fnun tlii.' first i!:l;;nce, tlie striking litjure and the miirf .strildiig fVunires of Jiiilitli iirri'.sU'il h:s attention. His cyis follow, d Iht tlirougli the winding mazes of tlie dunce. Tliey sought to meet hers. Genuiiel liricme ohserved him, and u scowl gathered on his brow. \VIien the dance was ended, he led Judith to a green hillock on which lier faiher sat, and approaching the heir of Kiccou, inquired fiercely — ■• What want ye, sir .>— what look ye at ?" ■' Tioth, friend," replied Walter, the blaster of Kiccon, who was of too courageous a tenij erament to be awed bv llie face or frown of any man, '■ I look at yer bonny Jiart- iier, and I want to speak to her, for a lovelier face or a gintler tigure my een haena looked on since my mother bore me." " Sir," retorted Genimel more fiercely, " ve hae ver grey goshawk, yer horses, and ver servant, I dinna covi t theni; and dinna ye covet what is mine, and to me m lir precious. Away the road ye cam, or ony road you like, but remain not heie. Your company isna desired. Is it the manners o' you gentry to break in where ve are uninvited .'' Again, I warn ye, while tlie earth is grctn, to turn your horse's head away ! I, Gemmel Graeme, ndia never vowed revenge but I satisfied it, wain ye!" " As well," replied young Walter haughtilv, " might you vend your threats upon the rocks that compose those cloven mountains, as waste them upon me. I shall speak wi' your bonny partner." And he str\ick his spurs into his horse to [irocfed towards her. Gemmel grasped the bridal, aiul in a moment horse and rider were upon the ground. " Gemmel Graeme ! ' shouted Lussha .Fleckie, " is that the welcome ye gie to strangers.^ Foul fa ye ! ye passion- ate tyke ! — tak yer hands atf the gentleman, and if he wishes to join in oor mmriment he's welcome. Gae, Judith, bring forward the gentle stranger." Gemmel withdrew his hand from young Walter's throat; and, as he did so, he uttered wild and bitter words, and Hung himself, as if in carelessness, on the ground, his head resting on his hand. Judith, at her father's bidding, went and conducted the heir of liiccon to where her father sat and the late dancers were assembled, and Gemmel was left alone. A brief con- versation passed between Lussha and ^\'alter, during which the latter failed not to express his admiration of Judith. Her father smiled — there was a look of triumph in the eyes of her mother. Tlie pipes again struck up, the dance was resumed, and Walter, the heir of Riccon, was the partner of Judith; while Gemmel Graeme lav upon the ground gazing upon them and gnashing his teeth. " We maun see that nae barm come to the young Riccon not o' this," whispered some of the eldest of the tribe to each other, who had not again joined in the dance, " for Gemmel is kicking his heel upon the ground, an' whistlin' to himsel', and the horse-shoe is on Lis brow. It was wrong in Lussha to provoke him. There is an ill drink brewing for the voung laird. He is dancing owre gunpoother where the touch-lire is creeping to it." The dance was ended, and young Walter, taking a costly ring from his finger, placed it on Judith's, and wdiispered — " Wear it for my sake." And her cheeks .seemed more lovely as she blushed, smiled, and accepted the gift. Gemmel started to his feet as he beheld this. But Walter dashed his spurs into his horse, and. riding away, in a few minutes was out of sight. Gemmel glanced upbraid- iiigly on Judith, and he passed bv her parents in sull^-uiess and in silence. But the heir of Riccon had not ridden far, when he turned round and said to his servant — '• We go now to ^lelrose, and "rom thence ye shall go back and watch the movements o' 'le party we have seen. Mark ye neel the maiden wi' HJiom I danced and whose marrow ye never saw ■ for rather would 1 that she was'lady o' R:ccon Ha', than that I shouldiia meet her again." 81iorlly after the dejiarure of Walter, some of the tribe, perceiving that what had parsed between him and Judith was likely to lead to a quarrel between Lussha Fleckie and (iemmel Gramie, and knowing, from the nature of botli, that such a quarrel would be deadly in its results, proposed that the festivities sliould terminate, and the encampment break up. The j-roposal was carried by a majority of voices ; and even Lussha, though conscious of the reason why it wa.s made, knew so well the fiery and desperate nature of him who was regarded by the trihe as the future husband of hia daughter, that he brooked his own temper and agreed to it. And, while they began to move their tents, and to load their asses and their ponies. Gemmel stood whistling moodily, leaning against a tree, his eyes ever and anon directed with an inquisitive scowl towards the tent of Judith's father, hit arms folded on his breast, and at intervals stamping his foot upon the ground; while his favourite hound looked in his face, howled, and shook its tail impatiently, as though it knew that there was work for it at hand. Early on the following day, the servant of the heir of Riccon returned, and brought him tidings that the encamp- ment had broken up, and Judith and her father had erected their tent in the neighbourhood of Kelso ; for, as the ballad upon the subject hath it — '^ Often by Tweed tliey sauntered do^\Ti As far as pleasant Ivelso town." Walter mounted his horse, and arrived within sight of their tent before the sun had gone down. At a distance from it he perceived Judith. She was alone, and holding her hand towards the declining sun, gazing upon her fingers as if ad- miring the ring he bad presented to her On the previous day. He rode to where she stood. She seemed so entranced that she perceived not his approach. She was indeed admiring the ring. Yet let not her sex blame her too harshly: men and women have all their foibles — this was one of Judith's ; and she was a beautiful but ignorant girl of eighteen, whose mind had never been nurtured, and whose heart had been left to itself, to be swayed by every passion. He dis- mounted — he threw himself on his knees before her — he grasped her hand — " Loveliest of women !" he began But I will not follow him through his rhapsody. Such speeches can be spoken but at one period of our lives, and they are interesting only to those to whom they are addressed : there ■ fore, I will spare my readers its recital. But it made an impression on the heart of Judith. lie spoke not of Ids feats of strength, of his running, leaping, and wrestling, as Gemmel did ; but he spoke of her, and in strains new but pleasant to her ear. And, although .she had chided her first lover as a flatterer, she did not so chide the heir of Riccon. Vanity kindled at his words, and even while he knelt and spoke before her, she forgot Gemmel, and already fancied herself the jewelled lady of Riccon Hall. lie perceived the efl'ect which his first gift had produced, and he saw also how earnestly she listened to his words. He wore a golden repeater, which he bad purchased in Ge- neva, and which was secured by a chain of the same metal, that went round his neck. He placed the chain around her neck, he pressed the watch upon her liosom. In her bosom she heard, she felt it beat, while her own heart beat more rapidly. " Ilark ! — hark !" said he, " how constantly it beats upon your breast — yet, trust me, loved one, my heart beats more truly for you." Before they parted, another assignation was arrangen. From that period, frequent interviews took pLice between Walter and the lovely Judith, and at each visit he brought her presents, and adorned her person with ornaments. Her oarents knew of his addresses, but they forbade them nut 9Sf) TALES OF THE BORDERS. Now, one evening tljev h;id taken up their abede in a de- serted buildinfj near to Twisel bridge; and thither the j'oung laird came to visit Judith. Her father invited lilm into what had once been an apartment in the ruined buiklinr;, and re- quested him to Slip with them. Walter consented; for the love he bore to Judith could render the coarsest morsel sweet. But, when lie beheld the meat that "as to be prepared and placed before him, his heart sickened and revolted, for it c.msisted of part of a sheep that had died ; and, when Lussha beheld this, he said — "Wherefore shudder ye, young man, and why is your heart sick ? Think ye not that the Hesh o' the brute which has been slain by the hand o' its Creator, is htter for man to eat than the flesh o' an animal which man has butchered .''"* Walterhad not time to reply ; for, as Lussha finished speak- ing, a dog bounded into the ruins amongst them. Judith started from the ground, she raised her hands, her eyes flashed with horror. " Ah !" she exclaimed, in a voice of suppressed agony, " it is Gemmel's- — Geminel's hound ! Fly, Walter, fly !" " Wherefore sliould I fly ?" returned the youth ; " think ye, Judith, I am not able to defend myself and you against any man.'' — Let this fierce braggart come." " Away ! — haste ye away, sir I" said Lussha earnestly, grasping him by the arm, " or there will be blood and dead fiodies on this floor ! Come away ! Gemmel Graeme is at hand, and ve dinna ken him sae weel as I do !" Walter would have remonstrated, but the gipsy, still grasping him by the arm, dragged him to a door of the ruin, adding — " Steal away — quick ! quick among the trees, and keep down by the Till to Tweedside. Dinna speak ! — away !" It was a grey midnight in July, and the heir of Riccon had not been absent three minutes, when Gemmel Graeme stalked into the ruin, and with his arms folded sat down upon a stone in sullen silence. " We are glad to see ye, Gemm.cl," said iMariam ; " ye liae been an unco stranger." " Humph !" was his brief and cold reply. The supper was spread upon the ground, and the mother of Judith again added — " Come, Gemmel, lad, it is o' nae use to be in a cankered humour for ever. Draw forward and help yersel' — ye see there is nae want." " So 1 see !" replied he, sarcastically ; " did ye expect company .' I doubt yer fare would hardly be to /i/.9 palate !" " What do you mean, Gemmel .''" cried Lussha ; " think ye that we are to put up wi' yer fits .' — or wherefore, if ye hae naething to say, come ye glunching here, ^^i' a brow as dark and threatening as a nicht in December ?" Gemmel rose angrily and replied — " I hae something to say, Lussha, and that something is to Judith, but not in your presence. Judith, will ye speak wi' me .'" added he, address- ing her. Judith, who had sat in a corner of the ruin, witn her hands upon her bosom, covering the watch which young Walter had given her, and forgetting that the golden chain by which it was suspended from her neck was visible, cast a timid glance towards her father, as if imploring his protection. " 1 am no sure, Gemmel," said Lussha, " whether I can trust my daughter in yer company or no. If I do, will ye gie me yer thumb that ye winiia harm her, nor raise your hand against her." "liarmher!" — exclaimed Gemmel, disdainfully — "I scorn it ! — there's my thumb." "Ye may gang, Judith," said her father. Judith, witli fear and guilt graven on her lovely features, rose and accompanied Gemmel. He walked in silence by her side until they came to an old and broad-branched tree. • Gipeics ahvnys asRi^ tin's .is .1 rcius'ni for tbcir prcfcn-ing tlic Bosh of aiiiiiuUii tliat have diud, to tlial ol'siich as arc slauglitcred. which stood about forty yards from tlie ruin. A waring summer moon had risen since he arrived, and mingled ita light with the grey gloam of the night, revealing the orna- ments which Judith wore. '' Judith," said Gemmel, breaking the silence, and raiding her hand from her bosom, witli which .she concealed tlie watch, " where got ye thae braw ornaments ! Has yer faither found a heart to lay his fingers on the treasures ia the silver jug ?" She trembled and remained silent. " Poor thing ! poor thing ! — lost Judith !" exclaimed Gemmel, " I see how it is. For the sake o' thae vile gew- 'Taws ye hae deserted me — ye hae sacrificed peace o' mind, and bidden fareweel to happiness ! O Judith, woman ! — wha is the flatterer noo ? Do you mind syne we sat by the hedge-side thegither, when the corn-craik counted the moments round about us, and tried to mind us hoo tliey flew — when the sun had sunk down m the west, and the bonny hawthorn showered its fragrance owre us, as though we sat in the garden where our first parents were Inppy .' Do you mind o' thae days, Judith ? — and hoo, when my heaving bosom beat upon yours, as we sat locked in ilka others arms, I asked, ' Will ye be mine ?' and ye let yer head fa' on my shouther, and said '/ icill!' — Judith! do ye mind o' thae things, and where are they noo .'" " Gemmel Graeme," replied she, and she wept as she spoke, " let me gang — I canna bide wi' ye — and ye Lae nae richt to put yer questions to me." " Nae right !" he returned — " O Judith ! hae ye for- gotten a' yer vows ? — or hae ye forgotten the time when, in caulder nichts than this, when the snaw ^'as on the ground, and the trees were bare o' leaves, that ye hae stood or wandered wi' me, frae the time that the sun gaed down. until the sea-birds and the craws sailed owre oor heads seeking for their food on the next morning? — and now ye tell me ye canna bide wi' me ? O Judith ! ye hae dune what lias made my heart miserable, and what will mak yer ain as miserable !" And as he spoke he still held her hand. " Let me gang, Gemmel," she again sobbed, and strug- gled to wrest her hand from his grasp — " I hae naething to say to ye." " Then ye will leave me, Judith !" he cried, wildly — " leave me for ever, wi' a withered heart and a maddened brain 1" She answered him not, but still wept and strug gled the more to escape from him. " Then, gang, Judith !" he cried, and flung her hand frun- him, "but beware hoo we meet again !" Some months after this, and when the harvest-moon shone full on the fields of golden grain, and the leaves rus- tled dry and embrowned upon the trees, there was a sound of voices in a wood which overhung the Tweed near Cold- stream. They were the voices of Walter the lieir of Riccor. and of Judith. "Leave," said he, "dear Judith, leave this wandering life, and come wi' me, and ye shall be clad in silks, dearest, hae servants to wait on ye, and a carriage to ride in ?" " Ah !" she sighed, " but a wandering life is a pleasant life; and, if I were to gang wi' ye, would ye aye be kind to me, and love me as you do now ? ' " Can ye be sae cruel as doubt nie, Judith .'" was his reply. " NVeel," returned she, " it was for yer sake that I left Gemmel Graeme, wha is a bald and a h al lad, and one that I once thought I liked weel. Now. I dinna understand about your priests and your books, but \^ ill ye come before my faither and my mother, and the rest o' oor folk, and before them swear that I am yer lawfu' wife, the only lady o' Riccon Ha', and I will gang wi' ye ?" " Jfy own Judith, I will !" replied AValter, earnestly. " You will not ! ' exclaimed a loud and wild voice, '■ on- less over the deal liody of Gemnifl Graeme !" 1K£ LISBAflY fiF IKE UNtvEh^iTv OF \imm JUDITH THE EGYPTIAN. VOL I. P. 2D7. TALES OF THE BOllDERS. 237 At the same moment a pistol fliislicil within a few y'iirds of where tliey stood, nm\ Walter tlie heir of Kiceon fell with a groan at t!ie feet of Juditli. Her screams rani; through llie woods, startling the slumbrring birds from the liranchi's, and causin<; them to Hy to and fro in confusion. (Jemmel sprang forward, and graspid her hand — ■■ Now, fause ane," he cried, " kiss the lips o' ycr bonny bridegroom ! — catch his spirit as it leaves liim ! Hang round liis neck and liaud him to yer lieart till his corpse be canld ' Non, lie canna hae ye, and I winna ! — fareweel ! — fareweel ! — fause, treach- erous Judith !" Tlius saving, and striking his forehead, and uttering a /ouil and bitter scre.im. be ruslud awav- Judith sank down by the dead body of Walter, and her tears fell upon iiis face. Her cries reached the encamjiment wiiere her parents and others of her race were. Thev hastened to the wood from whcnct> her cries proceeded, and found lier stretched upon the ground, her arms eiii-ircling the neck of the dead. Thev raised her in their arms and tried to soothe her, but she screamed the more wildly, and soemed as one whose senses grief has bewildered. " Jiulith," said her falherj " speak to me, bairn — wh.i has done this ? Was it" " Gemmel ! — wicked Gemmel !" she cried ; and in the same breath added, " No ! no ! — it wasna him ! It was me ! — it was me ! It was fause Judith." Gemmel Granne, however, bad dropped his pistol on the ground when he beheld his victim fall, and one of the party taking it U[>, thev knew him to be the murderer. Lus.sha Fleckie, to\iched by his daughter's grief, and disappointed by his dream of vain ambition being broken, caused each of his party to take a vow that thev would search for Gemmel (Jra-me, and whosoever found him sliould take blood for olood up n his head. And they did search, but vainly, for Gemmel was no more lieard of. Twelve months passed, and autumn liad come again. A voung maniac mother, with a child at her breast, and dressed as a gipsy, endeavoured to cross the Tweed between Nor- liam and Ladvkirk. The waters rose suddenly, and as they rose she helil her infant closer to her bosom, and sang to it ; but the angry flood bore awav the maniac mother and her babe. She was rescued and restored to life, though not to reason, but the child was seen no more. For thirty years the poor maniac continued at intervals to visit tlie fatal spot, wandering by tlie river, stretching out her arms, calling on her ciiild, saying — "Come to me — come to yer mother, my bonny bairn, for ye are heir o' Riccon, and why should I gang shoeless amang snaw ! Come to me — it was cruel Gemmel Gra^'me that murdered your b nny faither — it wasna me !" It was in January the body of a grey-haired woman, covered with a tattered red cloiJ;, was found frozen and dead, below Norham Castle. It was the poor maniac Judith, the once beautiful gipsy- Some years afterwards, an old soldier, wlio had been in foreign wars, came to reside in the neigh- bourhood, and on his deathbed requested that be should be buried by the side of Judith, and the letters G- G. carved on a stone over his grave. THE DESERTED WIFE The following tale was communicated to me when m Ouni- friessliire, in tlie year 1027. by an old and respectable lady, who was herself the subject of it. It interested me then, imd I shall endeavour to tell it to my readers as she told it to me. But, as she mav be still living, I shall change the name, thougli I then had her permission to publish it, and, to use her own words, " to write a Tale about it if I pleased." I -^hall therefore speak of her as JIrs Isabella Simp.son. My faiiher she beg in, was weel to do iii the world. lie liad a farm tliat bordered on the Nith. between Dum.ries and Sanquhar. The hiird and him liad been companions frae they were bits o' laddies, and lie had a guid bargain o't, and made a hatille o' siller. He was rallier a pur.se-proud man, but a kind fiither in tlie main, for a' tliat. jMy mother was a woman among ten tliousand — ye might liae searched ten parishes and not found her eq-ial — my faither aihiwed that ; and he had a right to ken, for she was liis wife thirty years. Siie was the best temjiered woman tliat I've ever met wi' in my born days ; and, without having the least par- ticle o' meanness about her, she was as thrifty as she was good-tempered. .She had also been a imrticuhirly weelfaured woman. An aulder brotlier and mysel were the only bairns that they bad living, and we were accordingly a g(xid deal made o', especially by our motlier. It was generally be- lieved that I would bring a fortuno to the man that got me ; and when I grew up to woman's estate, there were a num- ber o' young lads that jirol'essed to be very fond o' me ; but for my pirt I had no liking for ony o' them save one, and that was I'eter Simpson. He was a blate lad, and I didna ken that be was fond o' me frae hiiiisel ; but my acquaint- ances used to jeer me about him. and say, " Isabella, if ye dinna tak pity on puir I'eter Simpson, the lad will do some ill to himsel'. He is fairly owre head and ears aboot ye-" "Hoots!" said I, " nane o' yer havers — the ne'er a fears o' him. The lad never spoke to me in his lil'e." And sure enough, as I have tauld ye, he never had. But I used, to remark his confusion when he passed me, as lie half looked at me, and half turned away his head, and I'm sure I was as contused as lie was ; and it was a'thesither on account o' our acquaintances jeering me al)out him. At the kirk, too, on the Sabbath, I often used to observe his een fixed on me ; and when he perceived that I saw him, he would turn away his head, and bis cheeks, his very brow, grew as red as the morocco on the back of the laird and his ladv's bibles. Peter's faither was a farmer like my own, and we were on an equality in that resptct ; but he had taken a fancy to be I a millwright, and was serving his time fir that business in I Dumfries. Now, there was one day that 1 had been in the town, making some bits o' bargains at the shops for my mother ; but, just as 1 was completing them, a terrible storm came away ; it rained a perfect down-pour — such a spate as I never saw. Umbrellas had hardly been seen in the country at that time, and it wasna one in five hundred that had a one. I had no acquaintances in Dumfries, and I was forced to stop in the shop. But I remained from four in the afternoon until seven a*, night, and it rained as fast as ever — it was never like to fair. It was beginning to set down for dark. I was feared to gang hame at night, by mysel, and I saw it was o' no use stopping ony langer— so I left the shop; but. before I had got three yards from the door, who should come bang against me, as he ran wi' his head down for ihi^ lain, but Peter Simpson !" '■ Oh, I beg your pardon, Sliss Isabella," said he, when he saw who I was ; and he looked very confused. "There is nae barm done," said I. " Ye baena to gang hame in sic a nieht as this ?" said he. " Indeed hae I," said I. "Then," said he, "if ye'll just step into the shop there for a minute, I think I ken where I could borrow \e an umbrella." ^ thought it was remarkably kind o' him, and I gaed back to the shop again. He liadna been awav a handel-awhile. when in a very jitfy he came running back wi' an umbrella in his hand I went to the door as soon as I saw him, and he lifted up che umbrella ouTe my head and held out his oxter to me. I canna tell what my feelings were at the moment. I forgot that it was a down-pour o' rain and every thing else, and I wonder tliat I didna lose my mother's 238 TALES OF THE BORDERS. bundle frao ander my arm. But I took his oxter, and wi the umbrella owre our lieads we gaed linking awa thegither — and, between you and me, I was glad o' liis company for more reasons than one. I never had any idea before that umbrellas could be such comfortable things. It made it as pleasant o«Te our heads as if the sun had been shining on us. Under foot it wasna just so agreeable, for the water was running across the roads in many places just like rivers, and I had either to wade knee-deep or to allow Peter to take me up in his arm and carry me through, which he did ; though I was very greatly put about before I could think o' allowing hira to do it. But I got home, and when we reached the door, Peter was sae backward that he held out his hand to bid me " good-night," without gaun into the house wi' me. " Oh," says I, " ye maunna gang away yet — for when my mother hears o' yer kindness, if she kenned that I had let ye gang back at the door withoot askin ye in, she would be very angry." So I got him prevailed upon to gang in wi' me, and when I tauld my mother how attentive he had been, and how he had borrowed the umbrella, and accompanied me a' the way, she didna ken where to set him. There was naething in the house that she thought owre good for him. She got him to put off his coat, and his shoon and his stockings, and gied hira things o' my brother's to put on. My faither wasna at hame, I remember — I think he was in about Edin- burgh at the time. Jly mother pressed Peter to stop and take his supper wi' us ; and he did stop, and began to gather more courage, and to get the use o' his tongue. The sup- per was laid out, and a hearty meal he made, and glad was I to see him eat sae freely. After supper, my mother brought out the bottle and gied him a dram, and Peter drank baith our very good healths. Just as he was on his feet to gang away, my mother had to turn her back for a minute, and says he to me, while he keepit turning liis hat round about in his hand — " Guid nicht, Isabella — when may I come back again .''" " Hoots !" said I, without meaning the slightest harm, and not for a moment intending to forbid him to come back. He hung down, his head, and with a sort o' seigh, gaed away without saying ony mair. But night after night came, an' week after week, an' I saw nae mair o' Peter Simpson ; he hadna courage to venture back again, although it was not my intention to discourage him by saying — "Hoots!" About three months after this, my mother was suddenly cut olf frae among us and called to her account. I was naturally appointed housekeeper in her place. Now, we had a windmill on the farm, and the mill was out o' repair, and the millwrights were to come frae Dumfries to put it to rights, and till their job was finished they were to get their meat in the house. I wished that Peter might be one o' them, and he was one o' them. Our acquaintance was renewed. Peter's shyness gradually wore away, and I dare- say that, for a year and a half, for five nights out o' the seven, he came regularly to see me. We were very happy. I liked him, and he liked me. But his faither sent him to the south for a year or two, to some great men they ca'ed Mr Bolton and Mr Watt, to get a thorough insight into his business before he set him up for himsel. licch me ! what insight he got about wheels, and mills, or machines, £ canna tell ye ; but he got an unco insight into wickedness. During his absence, my faither had married a second wife, which I considered as very disi-espectful to the memory o' my mother, and I was very ill about it I was loath to gie up the keys o' the house to a stranger that wasna meikle aulder than myscl, and to gie up my situation as house- Keeper. I didna like to submit to her ; but my faither said that I should submit or leave the house — and what couid I do ? But 1 wearied for Peter to come back, and, weie it for no otner reason, just that I might hae a house o' my am, where I might hae the liberty o' doing what 1 liked without being quarrelled. But Peter did come back, and there was a very great change upon him indeed, though not for the better. He certainly looked a great deal smarter than when he went away, and I didna ken where he had left his former blate- ncss ; but he brought none o' it back wi' him. His language was quite Englified ; and, amongst other bad practices which he had acquired, I was baith sorry and disgusted to remark that of profane swearing ! — which he actually did as though he werna conscious o' what he was saying. sir ! I think there is naething that makes a man look mair degraded and contemptible than this most senseless o' a' sinfu' practices. It is lower than even daily drunkenness. I ken naething sae bad. However, I must say for him, there seemed no abatement in his affections for me: and I resolved that, as soon as we were married, 1 would cure him o' the bad practices he had acquired. To my sorrow and surprise, however, ye might as weel hae taken an adder by the beard as spoken to my faither o' our marriage. He set himself tooth and nail against it. " Na, na !" said he ; " if I were to allow ye to throw yer- sel awa upon that j'oung, graceless birkie, he would squan- der away the thousand pounds that ye hae for a portion, and break your heart into the bargain within a twalraonth." It was in vain that I grat before my faither and tried to reason wi' hira. I might as weel hae let my tears fall on a neither millstone wi' the hope o' softening it. Peter vowed, however, that he no' cared a snap o' his fingers for neither my faither nor the fortune he had to gie me — that it was me he wanted, and me he would hae. The short and the long o' the story is, that, finding there was nothing to be made o' my faither, and that he wadna come to, Peter got me to consent to elope wi' him. Sly conscience tauld me that I was doing a daft-like action, and a thing I wad may- be rue. But Peter, according to an agreement between us, came to my bedroom window, which after some hesita- tion, when I saw his frenzy and impatience, I opened, and he threw up to me the queerest sort o' ladder I ever saw. It was just bits o' sma' rope tied thegither, wi' twa cleeks at the one end. I had no sooner done wi' it as he desired me, than up he came, and whispering to me to come out at the window and place my foot on it, I did so, and he taking me under his arm, lighted me safe upon the giound in a moment. One o' his faithers servants was standing at a distance holding a horse, ready saddled to carry two. I gat on to the pad behint Peter, and he galloped away till we came to the side o' the Solway, and there I found a boat was lying ready to take us across to Workington. Peter took out a license, and that day I became Mrs Simpson. I heard that when my faither learned in the morning that I had run away, he didna oft'er to come after me, but he shaked his head and said — "Aweel ! ' they that will to Cupar maun to Cupar !' Poor infatuated lassie ! — sorrow will bring her to her hunkers, and she will be glad to come back to the house that she has clandestine left ; and, come when she like, for her mother's sake, she shall aye find a hame !" He said this when his wife was not present. I hae often thought that there is something prophetic in a parent's ' words, especial!)' when they speak concerning the conse- quences o' disobedience ; and in my case I found much o' what my faither said owre true. Peter, however, had begun busmess, and he and I set up house. Trade was very guid in the millwright line al that period, for thrashing machines were just getting into vogue, though ignorant folk raised an unco outcry against them. My husband's having been wi' the great men, All Bolton and I\lr AVatt, threw a good deal in his way ; and, on the second yciu' after he began business, we had fifteen jour- TALES OF TDE BORDERS 239 npymen constantly einplnyi'il, bosidi-s appriMtici's. Now, Peter was very clover, and everybody said that lie uas turn- ing out a " bright fellow. " Four years and hetter passed owro our heads, and I'm sure tliere wasna a liappier woman tlian nie to be met wi' round tin! ivhole eireumt'ereiioe o' the globe. I had twa bits o' bairns, a laddie and a lassie, and was likely to hae a third. I had L;ot I'eter so br(d;eu off the evil practices which he learned in the south, ami o' which I liae spoken, that he never swore, except when he «as in a passion ; ami, though that was more l"re(|uently than 1 wished — for he was of a. fierv temper — yet it never lasted lang, and he was always sorrow for it afterwards. Kven my faither heard sue uu'ikle about his behaviour and cleveriu'ss, and his attectiou for me ami the bairns, that he called one day at our house, and, after making an apoiogy for beinj^ anjrry at our marriaije, he actually paul t!ie thousaml jiounds that were 'o be my portion, down upon the nail. Weel, as I have said, this state o' hiijipiness continued for four years and better ; l)ut it divcrs nnd the broom blossom from every crevice of their pei-pen- dicular sides, and from whose summits tlic woods bcnddown, beautiful as rainbows, it prescntcth pictures of surpassing loveliness, which the eye delights to dwell upon. It is a fair siglit to look downr from the tree-clad hills ujion the ancient I)urgh, with the river half circling it, and gardens, orchards, woods, in the beauty of summer blossoming, or the magni- ficence of their autumnal hues, encompassing it, while the venerable Abbey riscth stately in the midst of all, as a tem- ple in jiaradise. Such is the character of the scenery around Jedburgh now; and, in former ages, its beauty rendered it a favourite resort of the Scottish Kings. About the year 1-70, an orphan boy, named Patrick- Douglas, herded a few sheep upon the hills, which were the i>roperty of the monks of Melrose. Some of the lirother- liood, discovering him to be a boy of excellent parts, instruct- ed him to read and to write ; and perceiving the readiness with which he acquired these arts, they sought also to initi- ate him into all the learning of the age, and to bring him up for their order. To facilitate and complete his instruc- tions, they had him admitted amongst them, as a convert or lay-brother. But, though the talents of the shepherd boy caused him to be regarded as a prodigy by all within the monastery, from the Lord Abbot down to the kitchener and his assistants ; yet, with Patrick, as with many others even now, gifts were not graces. He had no desire to wear the white cassock, narrow scapulary, and plain linen linodof the Cistertian brethren ; neither did ho possess the devoutness necessary for performing his devotions seven times a-day ; and, when the bell roused him at two in the morning, to what was called the nocturnal service, Patrick arose reluc- tantly ; for, though compelled to wedge himself into a nar- row bed at eijrht o'clock in the evcninjr, it was his wont to lie awake, musing on what he had read or learned, until past midnight ; and, when the noclurnal was over, he again retired to sleep, until he was aroused at six for matins ; but, after these, came other devotions, called licrce, the scxle, the 'lonc, vc.tpcrx, and the compline, at nine in the morning, at noon, at three in the afternoon, at six in the cvenin? and 31. Vol. I. befiire eight. These services broke in on his favourite studies ; and, possessing more talent than devotion, while en- gaged in them he thought more of his studies than of them. Patrick, therefore, refused to take the monastic vow. He " had heard of war. And longed to follow to the field some warlike lord." He, however, was beloved by all ; and when he left tho monastery, tho Abbot ami the brethren g.ive him their bene- diction, and bestowed gifts upon him. He also carried with him letters from the Lord Abbot and Prior, to men who were mighty in power at the court of King Philip of Fiance. From the testimonials which he brought with him, Pa- trick Douglas, the Scottish orphan, speedily obtained hivour in the eyes of King Philip and his noldes, and became a? distinguished on the field for his prowess and the feats of his arms, as he had been in the Abbey of Melrose for his attainments in learning. But a period of peace came ; and hewho was but a few years before a shejiherd boy by Tweed- side, now bearing honours conferred on him In' a foreign monarch, was invited as a guest to the palace of tlie illustri- ous Count of Dreux. A hundred nobles were there, each exhiljitingall the pageantry of tho age; and there, too, were a hundred ladies, vying with each other in beautv, and in tho splendour of their array. But chief of all was Jolandc, the daughter of their host, theCount of Dreux, and the fame of whose charms had spread throughout Christendom. Troubadours sang of her beauty, and princes bent tho knee before her. Patrick Douglas beheld her charms. He gazed on them with a mixed feeling of awe, of regret, and of ad miration. His eyes followed her, and his soul followed them He beheld the devoirs which the great and the noble paid to her, and his heart was heavy ; for she was the fairest and the proudest flower among the French nobility — he an ex- otic weed of desert birth. And, while princes strove for her hand, he remembered, he felt, that he ^vas an orphan of foreign and of obscure parentage — a scholar by accident, (but to be a scholar was no recommendation in those days, and it is but seldom that it is one even now,) and a soldier of fortune, to whose name royal honours were aot attached, while his purse was light, and who, because his feet covered more ground than he could call his own, his heels were de- nied the Insignia of knighthood. Yet, while he ventured not to breathe his thoughts or wishes before her, he imaginea that she looked on him more kindly, and that she smiled on him more frequently than onhis lordly rivals ; and his heart deceived itself, and rejoiced in secret. Now, it was early in the year 1283, the evening was balmy for the season, the first spring flowers were budding forth, and the moon, as a silver crescent, was seen among tho stars. The young scholar and soldier of unknown birth walked in the gardens of the Count of Dreux, and the lovely Jolande leaned upon his arm. His heart throbbed as he listened to the silver tones of her sweet voice, and felt the gentle pressure of her soft hand in his. He forgot that she was the daughter of a prince — he the son of a dead peasant. In the delirium of a moment, he had thrown himself on his knee before her, he had pressetl her hand on his bosom, and gazed eagerly in her face. She was startled by his manner, and had only said — ' Sir ! what means?" though in a tone neither of rej roach ?4S TALES OF THE BORDERS. nor of piide, when what she would liave said was cut short hy the sudden approacli of a page, who, liomng before her, stated tliat four commissioners havinj; arrived from the King of Scotland, the presence of the Princess Jolande w^is re- quired at the palace. Patrick Douglas started to his feet as he lieard tlie page approach, and as he listened to his words he trembled. The princess blushed, and turning from Patrick, proceeded in confusion towards the palace ; while he followed at a dis- tance, repenting of what he had said, and of what he had done, or, rather, wishing that he had said more, or said less. " Yet," thought he, " she did not look on me as if 1 had spoken presumptuously! I wU hope, though it be against hope — even though it be but the shadow of despair." But an hour had not passed, although he sought to hide himself with his thoughts in his chamber, when he heard that the commissioners who had arrived from his native land, were Thomas (Jharloris, the High Chancellor; Patrick de Graham, AVilliam de St Clair, and Jolni de Soulis ; and that their errand was to demand the beautiful Jolande as the bride and fjuccn of their liege sovereign, Alexander the Third, yet called good. Now, the praise of Alexander was echoed in every land. lie was as a father to his people, and as a husband to his kingdom, lie was \'\'ise, just, resolute, merciftil. Scotland loved him — all nations honoured him. But Death, that spareth not the prince more than the peasant, and which, to short-sighted mortals, seometh to strike alike at the righteous and the wicked, had made desolate the hearths of his p.'daces, and rendered their chambers solitary. Tribulation had fallen heavily on the head of a virtuous King. A granddaughter, the infant child of a foreign prince, was all that was left of his race; and his people desired that he should leave behind him, as inheritor of tht3 cro^^'n, one who might inherit also his name and virtues. He was still in the full vigour of his manhood, and the autumn of years was invisible on his brow. No " single silverings" yet marked the raven ringlets which waved down his temples ; and, though his years were forty and three, his appearance did not betoken him to be above thirt}'. His people, therefore, wished, and his courtiers urged, that he should maiTy again ; and fame pointed out the lovely Jolande, the daughter of the Count of Dreux, as his bride. When Patrick Douglas, the learned and honoured, but fortuneless soldier, found that his new competitor for the hand of the gentle Jolande was none other than his sove- reign, he was dumb with despair, and the last, the miserable hope which it imparts, and which maketh MTctched, began to leave him. lie now accused himself for having been made the sacrifice of a wild and presumptuous dream, and again he tliought of the kindly smile and the look of sorrow ivhich met together on her countenance, when, in a rash, impassioned moment, he fell on his knee before her, and made knou-n what his heart felt. But, before another sun rose, Patrick Douglas, the ho- noured military adventurer of King Philip, was not to be found in the palace of the Count de Dreux. Many were the conjectures concerning his sudden departure ; and, amongst those conjectures, as regarding the cause, many were right. But Jolande stole to her chamber, and in secret wept for the brave stranger. jMore than two years passed away, and the nogociations between the courts of Scotland and of France, respecting the marriage of King Alexander and Fair Jolande, were con- tinued ; but, during that period, even the name of Patrick Douglas, the Scottish soldier, began to be forgotten — his learning became a dead letter, and his feats of arms continued no longer the theme of tongues. It is seldom that kings arc such tardy wooers ; but between the union of the good Alexander and the beautiful Jolande many obstacles were thrown. When, however, their nuptials were finally agreed to, it was resolved ibat they slinuld be celebrated on a scale of magnificence such as the world had not seen. Now, (h.' oveliest spot in broad Scotland, where the Scottish King could celebrate the gay festivities, was the good town of -Jed ■ worth, or, as it is now called, Jedburgh. For it was situated, like an Eden, in the depth of an impenetrable forest; gardens circl-ed it ; wooded hills surrounded it ; precipices threw their shadows over flowery glens ; wooded hills embraced it, as the union of many arms; waters murmured amidst it ; and it was a scene on which man could not gaze without forgetting, or regretting his fallen nature. Yea, the beholder might b.ave said — " If the earth be yet so lovely, how glorious must it have been ere it was cursed because of man's transgression !" Tliither, then, did the Scottish monarch, attended by all the well-affected nobles of his realm, repair to meet his bride. He took up his residence in the castle of his ancestors, which was situated near the Abbey, and his nobles occupied their own, or other houses, in other parts of the to«Ti ; for Jed- mrgh was then a great and populous place, and, from the oveliness of its situation, the chosen residence of roj-alty. (It is a pity but that our princes and princesses saw it now, md they would hardly be again charmed with the cold, dead, and bare beach of Brighton.) An old writer (I forget whom) has stated, in describing the m.agnitude of .Jedburgh in those days, that it was six times larger than Berwick. This however, is a mistake; for Berwick, at that period, was the greatest maritime town in the kingdom, and surpassed London, which strove to rival it. On the same day that King Alexander and his splendid retinue reached -Jedburgh, his bride, escorted by the nobles of France and their attendants, also arrived. The dresses of the congregated thousands were gorgeous as summer flowers, and variegated as gorgeous. The people looked witb wonder on the glittering throng. The trees had lost the hues of their fresh and living green — for brown October threw its deep shadows o'er the landscape — but the leaves yet trembled on the boughs from which they were loath to part; and, as a rainbow that had died upon the trees, and left itshuesnnd impression there, the eml)^o^vningfores^ appeared. The maniage ceremony was performed in the Abbey, be- fore Morel, the Lord Abbot, and glad assembled thousands The town and the surrounding hills became a scene of joy The bale-fires blazed from every hill ; music echoed in the streets ; and from every house, while the light of tajiers gleamed, was heard the sounds of dance and son^^ The Scottish maiden and the French courtier danced by the side of the Jed together. But chief of all the festive scene was the assembly in the hall of the royal castle. At the farther end of the apartment, elevated on a purple covered dais, sal King Alexander, with the hand of his bridal queen locked in his. On each side were ranged, promiscuously, the Scottish and the French nobility, with their wives, daughters, and sisters. Jlusic lent its influence to the scene, and the strains of a hundred instruments blended in a swell of melody. Thrice a hundred tapers burned suspended from the roof, and on each side of the hall stood twenty men with branches of blazing pine. Now came the moms dance, with the an- tique dress and strange attitudes of the performers, which was succeeded by a dance of warriors in their coats of mail, and with their swords drawn. After these a masque, pre- pared by Thomas the Rhymer, who sat on the right hand of the King, followed ; and the companv laughed, wept, and wondered, as the actors performed their parts before them. But now came the roy.al dance ; the music burst into a bolder strain, and lord and lady rose, treading the strange measure down the hall, after the King and his fair Queen. Louder, and yot more loud the music pealed ; and, though it w;xs midnight, the multitude without shouted at its enliven- ing strains. Blithely the dance went on, and the King well nigh forgot the measure as he looked enraptured in the fait face of his beauteous bride. He turned to t;dce her hand in the dance and in its stead TALES OF THE BORDERS. Hic bony finders of a skc'leti>ii were rxtciulcil to liiin. He sliiiiiik l);ick iigluist ; for royalty sluiilili'reth :it the sight of Death, as (loth a he<:f;ar, and, in its ])n'seiice, fech^th liis jioivcr to ho as the power of him who vainly eommaiuh-cl the waves of the sea to go haek. Still the skeleton kept true measure Ijt'fore him — still itextendeil to him its hony hanil. lie fell liaek, in honor, against a pillar where a torcli-liearcr stood. 'I"he h)vely (^'leen shrieked aloud, and fell as dead u|ion the ground. '1 he music ceased- — silence fell on the multitude^ they stood still — they gazed on each other Dismay caused the eohl damp of terror to hurst from every brow, nnd timid maidens sought refuge ami hid their faces on the bosom of strangers. IJut still, visible to all, the spectre stood before the king, its hare ribs r.iltling as it moved, and its linger pointed towards him. The mu".ie, the dancers, became noise- less, as if death had «hispere;l — '■ ilux/i! — /)C xtilt .'" For the ligure of Death stood in the midst of them, .is though it mocked them, and no sound was heard save the rattling of tij bones, the moving of its teeth, and the motion of its fingers bef.ire the king. The lord abbot gathered courage, he raised his crucifix from his breast, he was abiiut to exorcise the strange s])ectre, when it bent its grim bead before him, and vanished as it came — no man knew whither. " Let the revels cease!" gasped the terror-stricken king; and tliev did cease. The day bad begun in joy, it was ended in terror. Fear spread over the land, and while the strange tale of the marriage s])ectre was yet in the mouths of all men, yea before six months had passed, the tidings spread that the good King Alexander, at whom the figure of Death had pointed its finger, was with the dead, and his young (jiuen a widow in a strange land. 'i'ho appearance of the spectre became a tale of wonder amongst all men, descending from generation to generation, ■ind unto this day it remains a niystcrv- But, on the day after the royal festival at Jedburgh, I'atrick Douglas, the learned soldier, tCKik the vows, and became a monastic bro- ther at IMelrose ; and, though be spoke of Jolande in his dreams, he smiled, as if in secret triumph, when the spectre that had appeared to King Alexander was mentioned in bis hearing. THE SIMPLE MAN IS THE BEGGAR'S BllOTHER. " JIany a time," said Nicholas Sliddlcniiss, as he turned round the skirts and the sleeve of his threadbare coat to ex- amine them, "many a time have I beard my mother say to my faithcr — ' Roger, Roger, (for that w as my faitlier's name,) the simple man is the he-sgnr's brolhcr.' But, notwithstand- ing my mother's admonitions, my faither certainly was a very simple man. lie allowed people to take him in, even wli.'le they were laughing in his face at his simplicity. I dinna think that ever there was a week but that somebody or other owrereached him, in some transaction or other ; for every knave, kennin' him to be a simpleton, (a nosey-wax as my mother said.) always laid their snares to entran Roger JMiddlcmiss — and his family were the suflerers. lie had been a manufacturer in Langholm for many a long .ear, and at his death lie left four brothers, a sister and mysel', four hundred pounds each Be it remembered, however, that his faither before him left him near to three thousand, and that was an uncommon fortune in those days — a fortune I may Ray that my fiither might have made his bairns dukes by. Had he lu) been a simple man, his family might have said that tliey wouldna ca' the Duke o" liuecieugh their cousin. Hut he was simple — simplicity's sel' — (as my mother told him wecl about it) — and he didna leave his bairns sae meikle to divide among them, as he had inherited from their grand- faither. Vet, if, notwithstanding his ojiportunities to make a fortune he did not ovcii leave us what he had got, he at least left us his simpieiioss unimpaired. My brotheis were honest men — owre honest, I ■ini sorry to Bay, for the every day transactions (jf this world — hut they always followed the o/ili^iiig path, and kept their face in a direction, which, if they had had foresight enough to see it, was sure to lainl them in, or on, (just as ye like to take the expression,) their unlive parixli. Now, this is a longing after the place o' one's liirtli for which I have no ambition ; but on the parish it did land my brothers. My sister, too, was a jioor simple thing, that married a man who had a wif(! living when he married her; and, after he li.iil got every shilling that she had into his ])ossessioii, he decamped and left her. " I5iit it is not the history of my brothers and sisters that 1 would tell you about, but my own. With the four hundred pounds which my faither left me, I began business as a linen manufacturer — that is, as a maister weaver, on what might be called a respectable scale. The year after I bad com- menced business upon my own account, and before I was two and twenty, I was taking a walk one .Sunday afternoon on the Hawick road, along by fSorbie, and there I met the bon- niest lassie, I think, that I had ever seen. 1 was so struck wi' her appearance, that I actually turned round and follow- ed her. 8he was dressed in a dulVel coat or jielisse, which I think country folk call a Juscjih ; but I fidlo« ed her at a dis- tanci', through fields and owrestiles, till I saw her enter a sma' farm-house. There were some bits o' bairns, ajijiarently hinds' bairns, sitting round a sort o' duck-dub near the stackyard. " ' Wha lives there, dearies.'' says I to tlieiii, pointing wi' my finger to the farm-house. " ' Ni d Thomson,' says they. "'And wha was that bonny lassie,' asked I, 'that g; cd in just the now r' ''He! he! he!' the bai;ns laughed, and gied me nae answer. So I put my question to them again, and ane o the auldcst o' them, a lassie about thirteen, said — ' It was the maister's daughter, sir, the laird's bonny Jenny — if ye like, rilgang in and tell herth.at agentlcman wisbestospeak toiler.' '■ I certainly was very proud o' the bairn taking me to be a gentleman; but I couldna think o" meeting iMiss Thompson even if she should come out to see me, wi' such an introduc- tion, for I was sure I would make a fool o' mysel' ; and 1 said to the bit lassie — ' No I thank ye, hinny; I'm obliged to ye ;' and a' her little companions ' he ! he ! he'd !' and laugh- ed the louder at my expense; \ybich, had I not been a simple man, I never would have placed it in their power to do. " So I went away, thinking on her face as if I bad been looking at it in a glass a' the time ; and, to make a long story short, within three months. Miss Jenny Thompson and me became particularly weel acquaint. But my mother, who had none o' the simpleness that came by my faither's side o the house, was then living; and when Jenny and I were on the eve o' being publicly cried in the kirk, t,he clapped her atfidavy against it. " ' Nicol,' said she, ' son as ye are o' mine, ye're a poor simple gonicl. There isna a bairn that I have among ye to mend another. Ye are your faither owTe again, every one o' ye — each one more simple than another. Will ye marry a taupie that has nae recommendation but a doll's face, ana bring shame and sorrow to your door ?' " I fieiv into a rampaging passion wi' my mother, for level- ling Jenny to either shame or sorrow : but she maintained that married we should not be, if she could prevent it ; and she certainly said and did everything that lay in her power to render me jealous. She might as weel have lectured to a whinstane rock- I believed Jenny to be as pure as the dew that falleth upon a lily before sunrise in May- But on the very night before we were to be married, and when I went to fit on the gloves and the ring — to my horror and in- expressible surprise, who should I .see in the farm-yard, (for it was a fine star-light night.) but my Jenny — my thrice cried bride — v.i' her hand upon the sbouther o' the auldeiit ■2U TALES OF THE BORDERS. 8(.n o' her faitlicr's laird, and his arm round her waist. J\Iy first impulsu u-as to run into the stackyard where they were, and to knock him down; but ho was a strong lad, and, tliinks I, ' second thoughts are best.' I was resolved, however, that my mother should find I wasna such a simpleton .ns she gied nie out to be — so I turned round upon my heel and went home, saying to mysel, as the song says — • 'If Ihis be the way of courting a wife, I'll never look after another ; But I'll away hame and live single my lane, And I'll away hame to my mother.' Wlien I went hame, and informed her o' what I had seen, and o' \vhat I had dune, the auld woman clapped me upon the shouther, and says she — ' Nicholas, my man, I am glad that yer ain een have been made a witness in the m;itter of which your mother forewarned ye. Ye was about to bring disgrace upon your family ; but I trust ye have seen enough to be a warning to ye. O Nicholas! they that marry a wife merely for the sake o' a bonny face, or for being a smart dancer, or onything o' that kind, never repent it but once, and that is for ever. Marriage lad, lifts the veil from the face o' beauty, and causes it to be looked upon as an evcry-day thing; and even if j'c w€re short-sighted before, man-iage will make ye see through spectacles that will suit your sight, whether ye will or no. Dinna think that I am against ye taking a wife; for I ken it is the best thing that a young man can do. Had your faither not married me when lie did, he would hae died a beggar, instead o' leaving y-e what he did. And especially a simple creature like you, Nicholas, needs one to take care o' him. But you must not expect to meet wi' such a one in every bonny face, hand- some waist, or smait ancle that ye meet ivi'. Na, na, lad; ye maun look to the heart, and the disposition or temper, and the affection for you. Thae are the grand points that ye are to study ; and not the beauty o' the face, the shape o' the waist, (which a mantua-maker has a principal hand in mak- ing,) the colour o' the een, or the texture o'the hair. Thae are things that are forgotten before ye hae been man-ied a twalmonth ; but the feelings o' the heart, and the sentiments the soul, aye rin pure, Nicholas, and grow stronger and stronger, just like a bit bum oozing frae a hill, and wimp- ling down its side, waxing larger and larger, and gathering strength on strength as it runs, ujitil it meets the sea, like a great riv«r ; and even so it is wi' the affections o' the heart between man and wife, where they really love and under- stand each other ; for tliey begin wi' the bit spring o' court- ship, following the same course, gathering strength, and flowing side by side, until they fall into the ocean o' eternity, as a united river that cannot be divided Na, son, if ye will take a wife, I hope ye hae seen enough to convince ye that she ought never to be the bonny Miss Thompson. But if I might advise ye in the matter, there is our own servant, Nancy Bowmaker, a young lass, a weel-faured lass, and as weel behaved as she is good-looking. She has lived ■\\'i' us, now, for four j-ears, and from term to term I never have had to quarrel her. I never saw her encouraging lads about the house — I never missed the value o' a priu since she came to ii — I never even saw her light a candle at the fire, or keep Jhe cruisy burning when she had naething to do but to spin, or to knit. Now, Nicholas, if ye will be looking after a wife, I say that ye canc-*^ ^o better than just draw up wi' Nancy Bowmaker.' " So my mother ended her long-winded harangue, which 1 h.ad hardly patience to listen to. In the course o' the week, the faither and brothers o' Sliss Jenny Thompson called upon me, to see why I had not fulfilled my engagement, by taking her before the minigter, and declaring her to be my wife. ' stood before them like a man touched wi' a flash o' lightning — pale as death and trembling like a leaf. But, when they began to talk big owTe me, and to threaten ine wi' bringing the terrors o' the law upon my head — 'and be it remembered I have an exceeding horror o the law, and wo'ald rather lose a pound ony day, than spend six and eighlpence, which is the least ye can spend on it) — as good luck would have it, while they were stamping th<:ir feet, and shaking their niev«s in my face, my mother rame forward to where we were standing, and says she to me — ' Nicholas, what is a' this about? What does Sir Thompson and his sons want?' " The very sound o' her voice inspired me ; I regained ray strength and my courage, as the eagle renews its age. And simple man as I was — ' Sir,' said I, ' what is it that ye mean? Gae ask your daughter wha it was that had his arm round her waist on Thursday night last, and her hand upon his shouther ! Go to him to marry her I — but dinna hae the audacity to look me in the face.' " ' Weel said, Nicol,' whispered my mother, coming behint me, and clapping me on the back ; 'aye act in that manner, my man.' " And both her faither and her brothers stood looking one to another for an answer, and slunk away without sayino another word either about the law or our marriage. I found I had gotten the whip hand o' them most completely. So, there never was another word between me and bonny Jenny Thompson, who, within a month, ran away wi' the son o' her failher's laird — and, poor hizzy, I am sorry to say, her end wasna a good one. "My mother, however, always kept teasing me about Nancy Bowmaker, and saying what a notable svife she would make. Now, some folk are foolish enough to say that they couldna like onybody that was in a manner forced upon them. And, nae doubt, if either a faither or a mother, oi onybody else that has power owre ye, says — "Like such a one," it is not in your power to comply, and actually love the person in obedience to a command. Yet this I will say, that my mother's sermons to me about Nancy Bowmaker, and my being always evened to her upon that account, caused me to think more about her than I did concerning ony other woman under the sun. And ye canna think lang about ony lass in particular, without beginning to have a sort o' regard for her, as it were. In short, I began to find that I hkcd Nancy just as weel as I had done Jenny : we, therefore, were married, and a most excellent and afl'ectionate wife she has been to me, even to this day. " It was no-w that I began the world in good earnest. But, though my wife was an active woman, I was still the same simple, easy-imposed-upon sort o' being tluit I had always been. Every rogue in the country-side very soon became accjuainted wi' my disposition. I had no reason to complain of my business; for orders poured in upon me faster than I was able to supply them. Only, somehow or other — and I thought it very strange — money didna come in sae f:ist as the orders. j\fy wife said to me — ' This trade will never do, Nicholas — ye will gang on trust, trusting, until ye trust yoursel to the door. Therefore, do as I advise ye, and look after the siller.' " ' O my dear, said I, ' they are good customers, and I canna offend them for the sake o' a few pounds. I have no doubt but they are safe enough.' " ' Safe or no safe,' quoth she, ' get ye your accounts set I tied. Their siller will do as mcikle for ye as their custom. Take a woman's advice for once, and remember, that, ' shor* accounts make long friends.' Look ye after your money.' " I couldna but confess that there was a great deal o' truth In what Jlrs Jliddlemiss (that is my wife) said to me. But I had not her turn for doing things. I could not be so sharp wi' folk, had it been to save my life. I never could affront onybody in my davs Yet I often wished that I could take her advice; for I saw people getting deeper and deeper into say boolcj, without the prospect o' payment being made more manifest. Under such circumstances I begai\ to think wi her, that their siller would be as good as their custom — the i one was not much worth without the other. TALES OF TUE BORDERS. 'A5 ' l"5ut, just to give yc a few instances o my snii[iliilty : — I was walkiii;;, on a sunniicr ovciiI?if;, as my custom was, al)Out a mile out o' tlic town, when I overtook a Jlr Swanston, a very rcspcctalile sort o' man, a iiel^hliour, and an auld ac- quaintance, wlio apiiearcd to be in very great triljulation. I think, indeed, that I never saw a fellow-creature in such visi- ble distress. His countenance was |)crf'cetly wofu', and he was ■WTinging his hands like a hody dementit. " ' I'rcservc us, Mr Swanston !' says I, ' what's tlie mat- ter wi' ye? — has onything happened?' " ' Oh ! happened !' said he ; • I'm a mined man ! — I wish that I had never hcen liorn ! — that I had never drawn hreath in this world o' villany ! I helievo I'll do some ill to mysel'.' '• ' Dear mo, Mr Swanston !' quotli I, 'I'm Sony to hear yc talk so. It is very unchristian like to hear a hodv talking o' doing harm to thelrsels. There is a poet, (Dr Young, if I mistake not,) that says — * S<;lf-inurdcr ! n.ime it not, our i8l.'ind*s shame I* Now, I dinna like to hear ye talking in such a way ; and though I liavc no wish to he inquisitive, I would just beg to ask what it is upon j-our mind that is making ye unhappy ?' •■ ' Oh, Mr iMiddleniiss,' said he, ' it is o' no use telling 3'e o't, for I believe that sympathy has left this world, as weel us honesty.' " ' Ye'rc no very sure o' that, neighbour,' says I ; ' and 1 dinna think that ye do mysel' and other people justice.' " ' ^Maybc not, sir,' said he, ' but is it not a hard case, that, after I have carried on business for more than twenty years, honestly and in credit wi' all the world, that I should have to stop my business to-morrow, for the want o' three hundred pounds ?' " ' It certainly is," said I, ' a very hard case ; but, dear ine, Mr Swanston, I always thought that ye would be worth twenty shillings in the pound.' " ' So I am,' said he ; 'I am worth twice twenty, if my things should be put up at their real value ; but at present I canna command the ready money — and there is where the rock lies that I am to be wrecked upon. ' ' Assuredly,' returned I, ' three hundred pounds are no bauble. It requires a person to turn owre a number o' shil- lings to make them up. But I would think that, you having bec'n so long in business, and always having borne an irre- proachable character, it would be quite a possible thing for you to raise the money amongst your friends.' " ' Sir, said he, ' I wouldna require them to raise the money, nor ever to advance or pay a farthing upon my ac- uount ; all that I require is, that some sponsible person, such as )-ouiself, would put their name to a bill for sis months. There would be nothing but the signing o' the name required o' them ; and if )'ou, sir, would so far oblige mo, ye will save a neighbour from ruin.' " I thought there was something very rcason.able in what he said, and that it would be a grand thing if by the mere signing o' my name, I could save a fellow-creature and auld acquaintance from ruin, or from raising his hand against his own life. Ii\decd, I always felt a particular pleasure in doing a good turn to onybody. I therefore said to him — "Weel, Mr Swanston, I have no objections to sign my name, •J", as you say, that be all that is in it, and if my doing so will be of service to you.' " He grasped hold o' my hand wi' both o' his, and lie squeezed it until I thought he would have caused the blood to st.irt from mv finger ends. " • iMr ."\Iiddiemiss, said ho ' I shall never be able to icpay you for this act o' kindness. I will feel it in my I.eart the longest day I have to live.' ■ I was struck with his agitation ; in fact, I was very much put about. For even a tear upon the face o" a woman dis- tresses mc beyond the power o' words to describe ; but to see the salt water on the cheeks of a man indicates that there is something dreadfully ill at ease about the heart. And 1 really the tears ran down liis face, as If lie hadLccn a truant schoul-Iaddie that had been chastised by his ma-ster. " ' There is no occasion fur thanks, Mr. Swanston,' said I — 'none in the world; fcr the man would be worse than a heathen, that woiddii^i be ready to do ten times more. " Weel, he grasped my hand the hardr it. A second time the few things I had left were put under the hammer o' the auctioneer. ' Oh !' said I, ' surely misery and I were born thegither !' For we had twa dochters, the auldcst only gaun six, baith lying ill o' the scarlet fever in the same bed, and I had to suffer the agony o' beholding the bed sold out from under them. It was more than human nature could endure. The poor, dear lammies cried — ' Faither ! mither ! dinna let them touch us !' I took the auldest up in mv arms, and begged that I micht be allowed a blanket to row her in. Nancy took up the youngest one ■ and while the sale went on, with our dying baims in our arms, we sat down in the street before the door, as twa beg- gars — but we were not begging. " Our case excited universal commiseration. A number o' respectable people began to take an interest in our weel- fare ; and business came so thick upon me that I had to get twa other looms, and found constant employment, not only for my auldest laddie, whom I was bringing up to the busi- ness, but also for a journeyman. " Just as I was beginning to prosper, hooever, and to get my head aboon the water, there was ane o' my auld creditors to whom I had paid the composition of seventeen and si.^- pence halfpenny in the pound, wha was a hard-hearted, avaricious sort o' man, and to whom I had promised, and not only promised, but given a written pledge, to pay him the remaining two and fivepence halfpenny in the pound, toge- ther with interest, in the course of six years. The time was just expiring, when he came to me, and presenting the bit paper, which was in myown handwriting, demanded pajTiient. " ' Really, sir,' said I, ' I acknowledge that I mast pay ye, though everj'body said at the time that I was a rery simple man for entering into ony such agreement wi' ye ; but it is not in my power to pay ye just now. In the course o' a twalmonth I hope to be able to do it.' " ' ]\Ir ]\Iiddlemiss,' said he, as slowly as if he were spel- ling my name, ' my money I want, and my money I will have ; and have it immediately, too.' " ' Sir,' said I, ' the thing is impossible, I canna gte ye what I haena got.' " ' I dinna care for that,' said he ; ' if I dinna get it, 1 shall gel yon. " He had the cruelty to throw me into jail, just as I wrs I beginning to gather my feet. It knocked all my prospects in the head again. I began to say it was o' nae use for me j to strive, for the stream o' fate w;is against me.' " ' Dinna say so, Nicholas,' said Nancy, who came on i foot tnice every week, a' the way from Langholm, to see 1 me — ' dinna say sae. Yer ain simplicity is against je— j naething else.' " Weel, the debt was paid, and I got my liberty. But^ I come weel come wo, I was still simple Nicol Middlemiss ' Ne'er hae I been able to get the better o' my easy disposi- ' tion. It has made me acquainted wi' misery — it has kept j me constantly in the company o' poverty ; and, when I'm] dead, if onybody erect a gravestane for nic, they may in- scribe owre it — The Si.Mri,E Mak is the Beggar's Brotuf.r. " WILSONS ll)t)S:on'cal. JCtMOtttonaiy, ana Imasmiitibe TALES OF THE BORDERS. THE COVKNANTING FAMILY Thiktv years ago, therf dwelt :in old man named Simon Cockl)urn, «lio follouo Covenant wore the plain blue bonnet, and the blue ribbon streamine from it, without any distinction from the men in the ranks ; ana when the men lay upon the bare ground, so did they. " ' Ye seem to come wi' a free-will offering, said the officer; ' and not only wi' an offering o' provision, but, judging by vour soldierly array, ye come to fight the battles o' conscience, the Covenant, and our country.' "'We do,' said the fatlier ; 'my five sons and myself, an' these sheep and ])rovisions, are the offerings o' my chil- dren's mother; which, my lord, or whatever ye may be, wi' her husband and five sons thrawn into the scale, makes iiue sma' sacrifice.' " ' Ye speak truly, worthy friend,' said the officer ; ' we rejoice in such devotedness towards our glorious purpose. Il is a volunteer cause, and Heaven affords us assurance of vic- tory. Yonder, see ye, is the general riding round the tents on the black horse ; go to him before he take up his quarters in the castle for the night — he will give ye a gracious wel- come.' " ' Weel, that is very odd,' said the senior Alexander Cockburn, gazing upon the general with a look of surprise. ' He is a wee, auld-looking body. Mv opinion o' him was, that he would be something like what we understand Sir William Wallace to have been — a man before whom his enemies fled, at the shaking o' his spear.' " ' O Alexander !' said Alice, ' hae ye forgot yoursef a'thegither, or, rather, hae ye forgot your Bible ? Do ye no remember the purposes for which the weak things o' this earth were chosen .''' '"True, Alice,' said he; 'I stand corrected.' And the fether, the mother, their armed sons, and the slieep and pro- visions which they brought with them, were placed before General Leslie " ' Well, good folk,' inquired the general, ' what would Te wi' me ?' " ' We come, sir,' said the elder Cockburn, lifting his bon- net, ' to offer you our best services o' heart and hand, and to— to ' " Here old Alexander, who, though one o' the most rigid and unbending men o' the Covenant, was withal a man o' singular modesty, and, in some respects, o' bashfulness began to falter ; on which Alice, taking upon herself the office o speaker, began to say — ' Yes, your excellency — that is, your generalship — we are come' " But her husband gently pulled her by the sleeve, whis- pering — ' Haud sae, Alice — just let me gang on — ye ken it behoves a woman to be silent, and in an assembly to open not her mouth.' " Though an obedient and an affectionate wife, this was a point which she probably would have been disposed to argue with him ; but the general, interfering, said — ' Wi' your good leave. Sir, I shall hear your wife. Scotland owes a debt to its wives and mothers, which, as a nation, they should be proud to acknowledge ; they are manifesting a godly en- thusiasm, which is far, far beyond the boasted virtue o' the mothers and maidens o' Rome, when thev saved their citv from destruction. Speak on, good woman. " Alice, thus emboldened, proceeded — ' Weel, Sir, as mv husband has said, he and our sons have come to offer you their best services o' heart and hand ; and o' the little we can spare, we hae brought ve six sheep, six firlots o' wheat, and six measures o' meal. The latter is but a poor offering; but when, as a wife, I present to ye mv husband, and as a mother, my five sons, I trust that what we bring will not be altogether unacceptable ; while it shall be my care to pro- vide mearis at least for their support; so that, if they be not of a.ssistance to ye, they at least shall not be a burden.' ' The old general diamounted, and took Alice by the hand. ' While Scotland can boast o' such wives and mothers as you,' said he — ' and I am proud to say there are many such — the enemies o the Covenant will never be able to prevail against us. 252 TALES OF TKii BORDERS. "Alexander Cockbiirn and his five sons then began to erect a sort o' half hut, half tent, beside those o' the rest o' the army, that they might be always in readiness. And, oh, Sir, at that period, Dunse Law presented one of tlie grandest sights that ever the eyes o' man were witness to. On the side o' that hill were encamped four and twenty thousand men. Lowest down, lay the tents o' the nobles and the great officers, their tops rising like pyramids ; before them were placed forty pieces o' cannon; and between them were the tents o' their captains ; and from every captain's tent streamed a broad blue flag, on which was inscribed the words I have already quoted — ' For Christ's Crown and THE Covenant.' Higher up the hill, were the straw- covered and turf-built huts o' the soldiers : and from the rising o' the sun until its going down, ye wouldna hae heard an oath or a profane e.xpression amongst those four and twenty thousand men; but, on the contrary, hundreds 0' the ministers o' the gospel were there, each man with his Bible in his hand, and his sword girt upon his thigh, ready to lead his followers to the battle, or to lav down his life in testimony o' the truth o' the doctrineswhich he preach- ed, ilorning and night there was public worship through- out the camp, and the drum summoned the armv to prayers and to hearing the word, while the services were attended by all, from the general down to the humblest recruit that had but newly entered the ranks. At every hour in the day also, from some part o' the camp or other, the sounds o' praise and prayer were heard. Every man in that army was an enthusiast; but he had a glorious cause to excite his enthusiasm — the cause o' his Creator, and his country's liberty — ay, and the liberty, the rights, and privileges o' posterity also. Yes, Sir, 1 say o' posterity ; for it is to those men that we are indebted for the blessings and the freedom ivhich we enjoy beyond the people o' other countries; though there are men who dared to call them mure fana- tics! — Fanatics, indeed! — but, oh, they are fanatics that saved "^heir country — that braved oppression — that defied it even to death, and that wi' their own blood wrote the irrevocable charter o' our liberty ! If they «ere fanatics, they were such as every nation in the world would be proud to call its sons, and would glory to have possessed. They are fanatics, if they must be called so, whose deeds, whose cha- racters, whose firmness o' purpose, the integrity of whose principles, and whose matchless courage, with the sublime height to which they carried their devotion, despising im- prisonment, pain, and death, render us unworthy o' being numbered as their descendants. I canna endure to hear the men, whose graves are the foundations on which are built our civil and religious liberties, so spoken o'; I winna see their graves — I winna hear their memories profaned. More fit we were to set up a national monument in remem- brance o' them. " On the day after the army o' the Covenant encamped on Dunse Law, the King held a grand review o' his army by Tweedside ; but just as the review was over — and when the king and his courtiers were retiring to sit down to their wine, and their feast o' fat things, and his poor half-hungered soldiers to kitchen out a broken biscuit, or a piece o' bare bannock, (while the Covenanters were living like gentle- men on wheaten bread and flesh-meat every day,) — some o' the loyalists, that had clearer een than others, observed the great camp upon Dunse Law, and the hundred banners v/aving in the wind; and ran to communicate what they had observed to the King. Charles, to do him justice, was a canny, silly sort o' a body, but just infatuated wi' his ideas aboot his prerogative — by which he meant absolute power — and his foolish desire to force everybody to swallow a bishop, gown, sleeves, and all ! However, when he heard that the ' blue bonnets were bound for the Border/ he spoke angrily and disdainfully to his otfi(U'rR. and upbraided them that they had not brought him tidings o the move- ments o' his enemies ; and, calling for his prospect-glass, lig stood upon the bank o' the river — and there, sure enough to his sorrow and consternation, he beheld tlie camp, and the multitude o' armed men. He even to a nearness count- ed their numbers. Now, Dunse, as the crow flies, not being quite seven miles to where the Tweed forms the Bordei line between Ladykirk and Norham, his Majesty spoke o' punishing the Covenanters for having broken the compact that they had entered into not to approach within ten miles — forgetting, be it remembered, that he was the first ag- gressor, in having sent his troops to attack a party o' the Covenanters at Kelso ; and forgetting, also, that his arniv was unable to stand up, even for a single hour, against the host who stood over against them. He soon, however, be- came sensible o' his weakness, and he again began to offer liberal and generous terms to his armed subjects; but no sooner did he find them ready to accept them, than his kingly word became like a whufl^ o' reek that has vanished out o' sight in the air : — ye may seek it, but where will ye find it ? The Covenanters were not willing to bathe their swords in the blood o' their fellow-subjects, and the King was feared to measure the strength o' his army against the blue-bonneted host. " But, as it is not mv intention to narrate to ve a history o the wars o' the Covenant, I shall only say that the King, seeing he had no chance if it came to a battle, consented to summon a parliament, and that everything should be settled as the Covenanters desired. Both armies were accordingly disbanded, and Alexander Cockbum and his five sons return- ed home to their own house, and laid their weapons aside.' " The old man said that ' he trusted the time had come when in this country the sword should be turned into a ploughshare, and the spear into a pruning-hook.' "But Alice answered him, saying — ' O Alexander ! a fool- ish thing has been done by our rulers- They have got an assurance from the King ; but they ought to have made as- surance doubly sure. Ye have read, and they must have read^' Put not your trust in princes.' The day is not dis- tant when they will rue that they overlooked that text.' " There was too much o' the nature o' prophecy in the words which Alice spoke ; for twelve months had not passed, when the mischief-making little churchman, Bishop Laud, and other evil spirits o' a similar stamp, egged up the simple King to break a' the promises he had made to the people o' Scotland, and wi' a strong hand carry «ar and revenge into the country. But, poor man, he reckoned without his host. His advisers were like the counsellors o' Solomon's son — they advised him to his ruin. The news o' his intention ran through Scotland like wildfire. Beacons burned on the mountains — men gathered on the plains — and before tha King was in readiness to leave London, all Scotland was in arms. Old Leslie was once more chosen commander-in- chief; and the same valiant men that the year before had en camped upon Dunse Law, gathered together, and marched towards the Borders. " They had reached Chousely, which is between three and four miles Mest o' Dunse, when Alexander Cockburn and his sons again joined them, and brought with them an offer- ing of provisions, as before. The general again remembered and welcomed them ; and he recollected them the more rea- dily, because Alice accompanied them. On the following morning, when the army began to march towards the south, she took her leave of them, saying — ' Fareweel, husbiuid ! bairns ! — to the protection o' Him ivhose battles ye go forth to light, I resign ye. Pray ye, that whate'er betide, I may be strengthened to bow my head, and say, ' His mill he donef Go, then, acquit yoursels valiantly ; think on the sacred cause in which ye are engaged, and trust in the Hand that will sustain ye. Bairns, fareu eel ! — your mother bless, s you ' — I TALES OF THE BORDERS. 253 she will pray for you ! Husband, fareweel I — look after our bairns. Alexander I ye are the youngling o' my flock ; and, oh, liinny, my heart yearns for ye, lest ye permit unworthy thoughts to arise in yer breast, that may deprive yer vonng arm o' its strength.' '"Fear not for me, mother,' replied the youth. " .She, therefore, returned home; and they proceeded wi' the army towards Coldstream, from whence tliey crossed the Twoeil, and proceeded, by way o' \\'ooler and Longfiam- lingtnn, towards Newcastle, of which town they came within sight on tlie tenth day after entering Northumberland ; but, finding Newcastle strongly fortilied and garrisoned by the King's troops, under General Conway, they proceeded a few miles up the Tyne to Newburn, where the civil war in reality began, and the first battle was fought. " ^\'hen the King's troopers heard that the Covenanters were encamped at Nowburn, they galloped out o' Newcastle, ■word in hand ; each man swearing lustily that he would kill a dozen o' the blue-bonneted Jockies — as they called the Covenanters in derision — and boasting that they would make prisoners o' all who escaped the sword. But when the inhabitants o' the canny toon heard the braggadocio o' the red- coats, as they galloped through the streets, flourishing their swords — ' Diniia brag tow fast, lads,' said they, shaking .heir heads ; ' words arena deeds ; and tak care that each me o' ye doesna catch a Tartar.' " Ne.\t morning, the battle o' Newburn was fought ; and the tone o' the King's soldiers was indeed lowered. They vere routed at every point, they ran to and fro in confusion, aial their panic was like a whirlwind in a barn-yard. ' The road to Durham ! — shew us, shew us the road to Durham !' they cried ; and, helter-skelter, neck-or-nought, leaving swords, pistols, carbines, muskets, everything they could ':lirow away, by the roadside, away to Durham, and far be- '-ond it, they ran. " Only five o' the army o' the Covenant were left dead on the field ; but among those five was old Alexander Cockburn, the husband of Alice. After the battle, his sons found his mangled and lifeless body in a narrow lane, between two gardens, surrounded by a heap of dead Loyalists, who ad sunk beneath his sword before he fell. " It is said that the first blow is half the battle ; and it was so wi' the Covenanters upon this occasion : their sudden victory at Newburn not only struck dismay into the hearts y the royal troops, but reason and fear baith began to whisper iheir warnings in the ears o' the monarch. He once more oecame a negotiator and seeker for peace with his thrice- jheated and injured subjects. They remembered the divine precept, to forgive their brother though he oflX'nded against them heven times in a day, and they kept this commandment before their eyes in all their dealings with the King. They forgave him his lack o' faithj and the hollowness o' his pro- mises ; and, extending to him the right hand o' allegiance, he once more gave his kingly pledge to grant them all that they desired, and to ratify it by the acts o' a Parliament. Pnir man ! ho had long been baith King and Parliament in Ills ain person ; and he conceived that in him dwelt absolute power, and absolute wisdom ; but little did he dree wliat a •lear Parliament the ane that he then spoke o' was to be r,o him. It is distinguished by the emphatic appellation )' ' Thk Parliament' even unto this day ; and by that designation it will continue to be known. Thus the arms ind the cause o' the Covenant again triumphed ; and, the objects for wliich the army took the field being accom- plished, they ^vere dismissed, and returned every man to his own house. " With afflicted hearts — while they rejoiced at the accom- plishment o' the object for which they had taken up arms — the five sons o' Alice Cockburn returned to Dunse. She was yet iguoranto' her husband's deatli ; and having been informed 32. t o' their approach, she met them at the door. She stretched out her arms to welcome them ; but they fell, as if suddenly stricken v/i' palsy, by her side ; and wi' a trembling voice, and a look that bespoke her forebodings, she inquired — ' Where is /tc ?' "They looked sadly one towards another, as if each were anxious that the other should communicate the tihip. Flora — that has been between us, and the vows we have exchanged wi' each other, I think I micht IjavP exjx'ctcd something inair frae ye now than — 'Sir ! Is 2*54 TALES OF THE BOKDERS. your heart changed, Flora— hae ye forgot me— or do y«J n-ish to forget me ? " ' No, Alexander, said she, ' I have not forgotten ye ; nor hae I forgotten the vows that have passed between us, as mv unhappy heart is a secret witness; and if I did wish to forget ye, it wouldnabe possible. For, wherever I micht be, thr nmembiance o' you would come o'er my thoug'its, 'ike the sh;idow o' a clnud passing across a river." " ' And after it had passed, would it leave as little iniprcs- ion upon your heart. Flora, as the shadow o' a cloud does upon a river.' " ' Ale.xander,' she replied, ' I am not gaun to argue wi' ye, for I canna. But, oli, man, ye hae drawn your sword against your King — ye hae fought against him, ye hae been a traitor in the land that gave ye birth; and, as my farther says, they who are rebellious subjects will never mak good husbands, or be regulated by tlie ties o' domestic life." " ' Flora,' returned he, ' 1 deny altogether that what your faither .says is cornet. But, even allowing that it were, I deny that' I Ime taken up arms against my King, or that I am a rebellious subject. We took up arms against injustice, tvranny, nnd oppression; and the king had previously taken up arms at^ainst us. Look at the whole conduct o' the Covenant army — hae they not always listened to every pro- Dosal o" [lie King, and trusted to his royal word, as faithful subjects who were wishful to prove their attachment to his throne and person ? But where can ye point out the instance that he has not fled from his engagement and deceived us, and shewed us that his promises and his pledges were not stronger than burned straw .^ Even the last engagement which he has made, and by which he is to secure to us the rights we have sought for, prayed for, fought for, I believe he will break — he will try to evade it, and give us vengeance ia its stead — and if he does so, I am no longer his subject but h is enemy, even though it be at the sacrifice o' you. Flora ; and rather than part wi' you, were it in my power, I would ten thousand times lay down my own life." " ' Ale.xauder,' adde'dshe, ' I haena forgotten thedayswhen ivo were happy thegither, and when we neither thought o' Rings nor o' oiiytliing else, but our twa sels. But now my faither forbids me to speak to ye ; and I maun obey him. And though I think that, in the principles ye are following, ve are wrong, very wrong — yet, Alexander, be ye rebel, be ye what you will, there shall never be another name but vours dear to my heart — though we ne'er meet again.' " ' Dinna meet again, dearest !' cried he; ' we will meet — we shall meet ! — we shall be happy too ! Never talk o' no meeting again.' And they clung around each others necks ind wept. " They wandered lang backward and forward, forgetting how the hours flew during their long, fond whispers ; and Flora's father, attended by a servant man, came forth to seek I lier. He vehemently upbraided and threatened his daughter, and he as vehemently reviled Alexander. lie called him by names that I couldna mention, and that he bore patiently ; out he also spoke disrespectfully o' his mother — he heaped insults on the memory o' his dead father. Alexander could endure no more ; he sprang forward, he grasped him by the throat. He placed his hand upon his sword which be still wore, and exclaimed — ' Sir ! there is a point to all endur- ance, and you have passed it I" " Flora rushed forward, she placed her hand on Alexander's arm — ' Forbear! — what would you do?' she cried ; 'it is my father !' " ' Nothing !' he replied calmly, yet sternly; ' I would do nothing ; I have borne nuich jirovocation, and acted rashly — for which rashness, forgie me, Flora. When I first drew mv sword to resist oppression, I vowed that should 1 meet one that \\'as dear to you in the ranks o' the oppressor, though his sword should pierce my body, mine wjuld not be raised against him. Faro wcel, dearest — ha; pier days may coQie. •■ !■ our years had not passed, when the Covenanters founi that they had but small cause to be satisfied wi' the promises and assurances o' the King. Provoked by his exactions, and his attempts at despotism, the people o' England had taken up arms against him. IMontrose, who had been one o' tht leaders o' the Covenant party, though a man possessed c wonderful military talents, was to the full as ambitious a' he was clever, ; and he hadna principle enough to withstand royal promises, smiles, and flattery; he therefore turned traitoi to the cause in which he had at first embarked, and lie turned the arms o' his Highlanders, and a body o' fierce Irishmen, against the men whom, three yearsbefore, he had led to battle. .\gain, many o' the Covenanters rushed to arms, and amongst them, the sons o" Alice Cockburn. " They served as musketeers under .Sir James Scott, and fought side by side at the battle o' Tippermuir. When. through the treachery o' some, and the want o' management in others, the Covenanters were put to flight, the little band c musketeers, seeking refuge in some ruined buildings, kept up an incessant fire upon the forces o' Montrose, as if resolved to sell their lives at the dearest price. Jlontrose, after many efl^orts, finding that they would not surrender, put himself at the head o' a powerful body o' Atholmen, and rushed upon the gallant 'band, who defended themselves like lions at bay. O' the five brothers, who fought side by side, four fell ; and the youngest only was left, like a servant o' Job of old, to tell the tidings. When Alexander beheld the dead bodies o' his brothers lying around him, sorrow and revenge raged in his breast together. His fury became a» the fury o' a tiger that is robbed o' its young. He d;ishea into the midst o' his enemies — he pressed forward to where Montrose was crying, ' Vengeance ! vengeance !' — he reached him — they engaged hand to hand. Jlontrose was pressed against a wall o' the ruins. " ' Fause traitor i renegade '.' exclaimed Alexander — *■ here shall I die, the avenger o' m v country and my brothers' blood !' " His sword was uplifted to strike, \\hen a body o' Atholmen, rushing to the rescue of their commander, the s«-ord was shivered in Alexander's hand, and he was made prisoner. " Several who had heard the words which he had applied to their leader, and had seen his hand raised against his life, insisted that his punishment should be death ; and, in justi- fication o' their demand, they urged the threat o' the Cove- nanters to do the same bj- whosoever ^Montrose might send to treat wi' them. " A sort o' court-martial was accordingly held ; and the fettered prisoner was brought forth before a tribunal who had already agreed upon his sentence. He, however, looked his judges boldlv in the face. His cheeks were not blanched, nor did his lips move with fear ; he heard the charges read against him — the epithets that had been applied to .^lontrose, who was the King's representative — and that he had raised his sword against his life. He daringly admitted his having applied the ejiithets — he repeated them again ; and. raising his clenched and fettered hands in the face o' his judges, lie justified what he had said ; and he regretted that his sword had been broken in his hand before it had accomplished the deed which he desired. " Jlontiose drew his brows together, and glanced upon him sternly ; but the young prisoner met his gaze with a look of scorn. " ' Away witli him,' said his judges ; ' to-morrolv, let him be brought forth for execution. His fate shall be an example to all rebels.' " During tne night which he had heard to be pronoun- ced the last d' his existence, and throughout which he heard the heavy tramp o' the sentinel pacing before tlie place of his confinement — he mourned not for his ovrn fate ; but the tears ran down his cheeks when he thought o' his poor widowed, desolate, and unfriended iviother ! TALES OF THE BONDERS. 255 '• ■ Oh, who, he cxcluimocl, ' who wiil toll Ikt th:it li'T liainis lire \vi' the dead! — that tliere is not one left, fnnn the anUlest to *,he youngest! — hut that her hushand and her sons are gone! — a' gone? — I\Iy mother! — my poor mother!" Then he would jjause — strike h.is hand upon his hosom — lean Ids hrow against the wall o' the apartment, and raising it again, say — ' And Flora, too, my ain l)etrotlied ! — who will tell, who will comfort her ? Her faither may hear the tidings to her ; hut tliere will lie nae sympathy for me in his words, nae compassion for her sorrow. Oli, could I only have seen her before I died — had there been ony ane by whom I could h;io sent her some token o" my remembrance in death, I would liae bared mv breast to the muskets that are to destroy me, without regret. But to die in the manner I am to do, and i.ot three and twenty yet! Oh, what will mv poor Flora say.?- " Then folding liis arms in wretchedness, he threw himself u])on the straw which had been spread as a bed for his last night's repose. " Early on the following day he was brought forth for exe- cution. Hundreds o' armed men attended as spectators o' the scene; and, as he was passing through the midst o' them, he started, as he approached one o' them, who stood near to IMontrose, and he exclaimed — ' Mr Stuart !' " lie stood still for a few moments, and approaching the person whose appearance had startled him — ' Jlr Stuart,' he added, ' ye hae long regarded me as an enemy, and as a destroyer o' your peace ; but, as one tlie very minutes o' \vhose existence are numbered — and as one for \^'hom ye once professed to hae a regard — I would make one sma' re- quest to ye — a dying request — and that is, that ye would take this watch, which is all I hae to leave, and present it to vour d.iughter, my ain betrotlied Flora, as the last bequest and token o' remembrance o' him to whom her first, her only vow was plighted." " It was indeed the father o' Flora he addressed, whose loy- ■ilty had induced him to take up arms with Jlontrose ; but ho turned away his head, and waved back his hand, as Alex- ander addressed him, as though he knew him not. '■ Montrose heard the words which the prisoner had spoken, and, approaching Mr Stuart, he said — ' Sir, our young pri- soner seems to know ye — yea, by his words, it seems that ye were likely to be more than friends. Fear not to counte- nance him ; if ye can urge aught in his favour — yea, for the services ye have rendered, if ye desire that he should be pardoned — speak but the word, and he shall be pardoned, irontrose has said it. " ' 5Iy lord,' said Stuart, ' I will not stand in the way o' justice — I would not to save a brother ! I have nothing to say for the young man.' " And as he turned away, he muttered, loud enough to be lieard — ■' Let him meet bis appointed doom, and ye will extinguish the last o' a race o' incorrigible rebels.' " ' Youth,' said :\Iontrose, addressing Alexander, ' from the manner in which ye addressed Mr Stuart, and the way in which he has answered my inquiries respecting ye, it is evident to me that the turbulent spirit o' the times has be- gotten a feeling between ye, which ought not to exist ; and throuy;h your quarrel, the heart o' a gentle maiden may be !)roken. But 1 shall have no part in it. I think," he added in a lower tone, ' I have seen your firce before. When the lot fell upon me to be the first to cross the Tweed at Hirsel- haugh into England, are ye not the stripling that was the first to follow me?' '•' ' I am,' replied Alexander; ' but what s'ignihes that, my lord — yc have since c> ossrd lite ivalcr in an opposite direction !' " Montrose frowned for a moment ; but his better nature forced liim to admire the heroism of his prisoner; and he added — ' Consent to leave the rebellious cause into which you have plunged — embrace the service of your king, and you are pardcned — you shall be promoted— tlie hand of the maiuen whom you love shall be yours ! — I will be surety for what I have said.' " Alexander remained silent for a few minutes, as thougli there wore a struggle in bis liosnm what he should say ; at length, turning his eyes to.vards Montrose, he answered — ' N\'iiat, my lord ! turn renegade, like you ! — desert the cause for wjiich my father and my brethren have laid down their lives ! Wi' all the offers wlii hold out — and tempting Olio o" them is — I scorn life at such a price. Let them lead nie to execution ; and I liave but one request to make to ye. Ye have heard the favour which I be-^ought o' that man, and which he refused to grant' — as he spoke he pointed to the father of F'lora — ' ye u-iU inform his daughter that Alex- ander Cockburn met death as became a man — that his last thoughts were o' her — that his last breath breathed her name I' " ' You shall not die !' exclaimed Montrose, impatiently ; ' I will not so far gratify your pride. Cv)nduct him to Portli,' added he, addressing those who guarded the pri- soner ; ' and let him be held in safe keeping till our further pleasure is known concerning him.' " He had admired the daunth'Ss spirit which young Cock- burn displayed, and he souglit not liis life, but he resolved, if it were possible, to engage him in his service. " For many weeks, Alexander remained as a prisoner in Perth, without hope of rescue, and without being able to learn which cause prevailed — the King, the Parliament, or the Covenant — for the civil v.-ar was now carried on by three parties. At length, by daily rubbing the iron bars o' his prison window wi' some sort o' soap, which he contrived to get, they became so corroded, that the stanchels yielded to his hands as rotten wood. He tore the blankets that cover- ed him into ribbons, and fastening them to a portion o' one o' the broken bars, lowered himself to the street. ■' It was night, and he fled to the quay — and found con- cealment in the hold of a vessel, which, on the following day, sailed for London. " But it is time to return to Alice — the widowed, the all but childless mother. Day after day she prayed, she yearned, that she might obtain tidings of her children ; but no tidings came. Sleep forsook her solitary pillow, and, like Rachel, she wept for her children because they were not. But a messenger of evil at length arrived, bearing intelligence that four of her sons had fallen in battle, and that the fifth, her youngest, had been made prisoner, and was sentenced to difi. '" JMy cup o' wretchedness is full, cried the bereaved mo- ther ; ' have I none left — not one— not even my Alexan- der, my youngest — the comfort o' my age ? But I must sub- mit. It is for the best — it is a' for the best, or it wadna be. I should rejoice that I hae been chastened, and that mv afiliction has been for a cause that will confer liberty o' con- science on posterity, and freedom on our poor distracted coun- try. But, oh, I canna forget, my heart winna do it, that I was once a wife — that I was a mother — and had five sons, the marrow o' whom ve wouldna hae found in a' the IMerse but now my husband is not, and my bairns are not, and I am a lone widow, u-earying to be wi' them, and wi' no ane here to speak to me ! Yet 1 ought not to murmur 1 — no ! no ! It was me that urged them to go forth and fight the good fight ; but, strong as my zeal then was — oh, human nature, and a wife's, a mother's feelings, are strong also.' " But Alice, in the day o' her distress found a comforter, and one that sympathised wi' her in all her sorrows, in one whom she had but small right to expect to be a friend. ^Vhen she was left to mourn in solitude, wi' but few to visit her, there was one who came to condole wi' her, and who having once visited her, was seldom absent from her side — and that was Flora Stuart, the betrothed o' her youngest son, o' whom she had spoken rashly. " ' O bairn !' said slie, addressing Flora, ' little, little indeed, does Alice Cockb'irn deserve at ycr band* ■ — foi 256 TALES OF THE BOEDEKS. but for me, and my puir Alexander niiglit this day liaebeen in life, and held yer hand in. his. But, forgie me, hinny ! It was in a guid cause that I hae sacrificed a' that was dear to me in this warld — only, it was a sair, sair stroke upon a mother !' '■ Flora strove to comfort her; but it was in vain. She didna repine, neither did she murmur as those who have no hope ; but her health, which had never been what doctors would call robust, was unable to stand the shock which her feelings had met wi' ; and, in a few weeks, after hearing o' the deaths o' her children, Alice Cockburn was gathered wi' the dead, and Flora Stuart accompanied her body mourning to the grave. ■' I have mentioned that Alexander concealed himself on ooard a vessel which sailed for London. He had been three days at sea before he ventured from the place o' his conceal- ment, and the captain liimself being the son o' a Covenanter, he was conveyed to the great city in safety. He had been but a short time in London, when, meeting with a gentle- man who belonged to the neighbourhood o' nunse, he learned that his mother w.is dead, and that his father's brother, believing that he was dead also, had taken possession o' the property. " Alexander had never had the same religious feelings in the cause in which he had been engaged, that his father and his brothers had. He fought for the sake of what he called liberty, rather than for any feeling o' conscience ; and his ruling passion was a love o' warlike adventures. He, there- fore, had been but a short time in London, when he joined the parliamentary army ; and his courage and talents soon drew upon him the notice o' Cromwell, and others o' the parliamentary leaders. " It was about six years after the battle o' Tippermuir, when one, who ^^'as supposed to be a spy from the rovalistSj fell into the hands o' a party belonging to the parliamentary army. He was examined, and evidence bearing strongly against him, that he had come amongst them secretly to pry out where the army «ould be most vulnerable, and, if pos- sible, to entrap them into the hands o' their enemies, was produced against him. He was examined a second time, and letters were found concealed about' his person which left no doubt o' his being- a spy. Some voted that he should he immediately punished with death; but, while all agreed in the nature o' the punishment that ought to be inflicted, there were some who proposed that the execution o' his sentence should be deferred for a few days, until the arrival o' their commanding otticer, who was then absent. " During the days that he was thus respited, a daughter o' the spy arrived, and flinging herself upon her knees before the officers who had condemned him, she besought them, with tears, that they would spare her father's life. Her distress might have moved a heart o' stone. Before them they be- held youth, beauty, loveliness, bathed in misery — bowed down wi' distress. They saw her tears falling at their feet — but they had been used to tears o' blood, and her wretched- ness moved them not. All that they would say to her was, that their superior officer was not present, and, with the evi- dence which they had to submit before him, they could not revoke the sentence thev had passed. " On the third day, the chief officer o' the party arrived. All that had been proved against the prisoner was told to him, and the papers that had been concealed about him were placed before him. He was about to pronounce the words — "'He shall surely die !' when, pausing, he cunnnanded that the prisoner should be brought before him. " The doomed one was accordingly ushered into his pre- bence. When the officer beheld him approach, he started up — Can it be possible !' he exclaimed — " INIr Stuart !' and gflsped as he spoke. " The pri.soncr also started at he.iring his true n»me. and raising his head, said ' It is jiossible ! Alexander Coekbum, I am your prisoner — It is your turn 7iow !' " The officer, who was chief in command o' the party, wag none other than Alexander Cockburn, the young Covenanterj and the doomed spy was ]\Ir Robert Stuart, the father of Flora. " 'Sir,' said Alexander, 'my turn is indeed come — it is come to prove to you, that as generous feelings may kindle in the eyes that are barely shaded by the blue bonnet o' a Covenanter, as in those that look proudly from beneath the gay beaver o' a Cavalier. There was a time when I stood as vou were like to have done now, wf but a few ticks o' a watch between me and eternity — the watch that ye refused to take from mv hand ; and when but the expression o' a wish from your lips was all that was required to obtain my pardon, my freedom — and that v.ish ye wouldna express.' " ' I ken it, lad ! I ken it !' cried the prisoner; ' but I am in your power now ; take your revenge — do by me as I would have done by you !' " ' No, Mr Stuart !' replied the other — ' vengeance belongs not to me. But Irejoice that, in this instance, for the sake o' one whose name I may not mention here, I have the power o' pardoning. Soldiers, unloose his hands — he is free — he is forgiven. " The soldiers did as they were conmianded. " ' Alexander Cockburn !' exclaimed the late captive, ' will you make me appear more contemptible than a worm in my own eyes ? A minute has not passed since you re- minded me how I hated you, and how deadly I shewed my hatred. The remembrance of the occasion on which I shewed that feeling has been like a biting adder in my breast ever since ; and now to receive life at your hands would be to make my future existence a mixture of wormwood and gall.' " ' Say not so,' said Alexander, stepping forward and tak ing his hand. ' I would speak with you in private.' "At that moment, a voice was heard without, crying — ' Let me pass ! — pray, let me pass ! — let a daughter inter- cede with your officer for the life of a father!' " ' Sir ! sir !' exclaimed Alexander — ' it is hei! it is her.' — . my Flora's voice !' And he rushed to the door to meet her. " ' Flora !- — .. - - - free ! — he is -my own Flora !' he continued — ' your father is forgiven ! — he shall live ! What ! do you not know me ? I am your own Alexander 1' " ' Alexander !" she cried, springing forward to meet him ; and, yielding to the natural feelings o' the man, her father ran towards them and embraced them both. ' ]My story, said the old schoolmaster, is now at a close. Alexander gave up his commission in the parliamentary army. It was low-water mark wi' the king's people, and Jlr Stuart accompanied him ; and, need I tell ye, that so did Flora. They had abundance to keep them comfortable ; and, on the day after they arrived at Dunse, she took them to the kirk}'ard, and shewed them a clean, white headstone o' Alice Cockburn. " ' Bless ye for this, my ain wife,' said Alexander, while the tears were in his een, and he raised her hand to his lips. " I have only to add, (continued the narrator.) tliat I, Simon Cockburn, am the great-grandson o' Alexander Cock- burn and Flora Stuart." ^V J f. S O N S fth^loncAl, STiMtiiUon.in), ana 5mproached the forlorn stranger; and her strange dress, her youth, the stamp of misery that surrounded her, and the death-like cxjiression of licr features, moved him, as he gazed ujion her and her child, almost to tears " Get up, woman," said he; " why do you lie there ? Get up, and come wi' me ; ve seem to be ill, and my wife will get ye something comfortiible." But she spoke not, the moved not, though the child screamed louder at his prcfcnce. He called to her again; but still she remained motionless. " I'reserve us !" said he, somewhat alarmed, "what can /lave come owrc the woman ? I daresay she is in a trance ! She sleeps sounder there in the open air, and upon the bare Straw, wi' her poor bairn crying like to break its liciut upon 33 Vol. 1. her breast, than 1 could do on a feather bed, wi' everything peace and quietness around nie. Come, waken, woman !' he added ; and he bent down and took her by the hand. But her fingers were stiff' and cold — there was no sign of life upon her li]>s, neither was there breath in her nostrils. " What is this !" exclaimed Peter, in a tone of horror — " a dead woman in my stackyard ! — has there been mnrde," at my door through the night ? I'll gie all that I am worth as a reward to find it out !" And leaving the child scream- ing by the side of its dead motlier, he rushed breathless into the house, exclaiming — "O wife! wife! — Jenny, woman! — I say, Jenny! get up ! Here has been bloody wark at our door ! What do ye think ! — a dead woman lying in our stackyard, wi' a bonny bairn screaming on her breast !" " SVhat's that ye sa}', Peter !" cried his wife, starting up in terror ; a dead woman ! — ye're dreaming — ye're not in earnest !" " Haste 3'e ! haste ye, Jenny !" lie added ; •' it's as true as that my name is Peter Thornton." She arose, and, with their household ssrvants, accom- panied him to where the dead body lav. " Now," added Peter, with a look which bespoke the troubled state of his feelings, " this will be a job for the crowner, an' we'll a' have to be examined and cross-examined backward and forward, just as if we had killed the woman or had anything to do wi' her death. I would rather have lost five hundred pounds, than that she had been found dead upon ray stackyard." " But, sec," said Jenny, after she had ascertained that the mother was really dead, and as she took up the child in her arms and kissed it — " see, what a sweet, bonny, inno- cent-looking creature this is! — And, poor thing, only to think that it should be left au orphan, and apparently in a foreign land, for I dinna understand a word that it greets and says." A coroner's inquest was accordingly lield upon the body and a verdict of " Found dead" returned. Nothing was discovered about the person of the deceased, wliich could throw light upon who she was. All the money she had had with her consisted of a small Spanish coin; but on her hand she wore a gemmed ring, of curious workmanship and con- siderable value, and also a plain marriage-ring. On the in- side of the former, were engraven the characters of C V. et U. V. ; and, within the latter, C. ci JI. F. The flishion ol her dress was Spanish, and the few words of lamcntatiot which her poorcliild could imperfectly utter, were discovered to be in that language. There being small likelihood of discovering who the stranger had been, her orjdian boy was about to be committed to the workhouse ; but IMrs Thorn- ton had no children of her own, the motherless little one had been three days under her care, and already her heart began to feel for him a mother's fondness. " Peter," said she, unto her husband, " I am not happy at the thought o' this poor bairn being sent to the w orkhouse. I'm sure he was born above such a condition. Death, in taking his mother, left him helpless and crying for help at our door, and I think it would be unnatural in us to with- hold it. Now, as we have nae family o' our own, if ye'U bear the expense, I'm sure I'm willing to take the trouble o bringing him up." " Wi' a' my heart, Jenny, my dow," said Peter ; " it was me Ihatfound the bairn, and if ye say. keep it, I say, keep it loo TALES OF THE BORDERS. His moat will never be m.ssccl; and it will be a noise year wi' us than onywe liac seen, wben wocannagetclaestobisback." " Peter," replied slie, " I always said yc liad a good heart; anil, by this action, ye prove it to the -world." " 1 care not that !" said he, snapping the nail of his thumb ujuvards from his forefinger " what the -woild may say or think about me, provided yoii and my conscience say that it is right tliat I hae done." They, therefore, from that hour, took the orphan as the rhilil of their adoption ; and they wei'e most puzzled to decide by what name lie should be called. '■ It is perfectly evident to me," said the farmer, 'from the letters on the rings, that his faither's first name has begun wi' a C, and his second wi' an F; but we could never be able to find out the outlandish foreign -words that they may stand for. Wc shall, therefore, just give him some decent Christian name." " And what name more decent or respectable could wv? gie him than our own ?" said Jenny. " Suppose wo just call him Thornton — Peter Thornton?" "No, no, goodwife," said he, " there must two words go to the making o' that bargain ; for though nobody would charge you wi' being his mother, the time may come when folk would be wicked enough to hint that I was his faither; therefore, I do not think it proper that he should take my name. What say ye now, as it is probable tliat his faither's name begun with a C, if we were to call Iiira Christopher ; Jiid as we found him in the month of Way, we should gie him a surname after the month, and call him Christopher May. That, in my opinion^ is a very bonny name ; and 1 hae nae doubt that, if he be spared till those dark een o' his begin to look after the lasses, moiiy a ane o' them will be o' the same -way o' thinking." The child soon became reconciled to the change in his situation, and returned the kindness of his foster-mother with aifoction. She rejoiced as li« gradually forgot the few words of Spanish which he at first lisped, and in their stead began to speak the language of the Borders. With delight in her eyes, she declared that " she had learned him his ntnt/icr tongue, ^vllich he now spoke as luilural as life, though, when she took him under her care, he could say nothing but some heathenish kind o' sounds, which nobody could make any more sense o', than it was possible to do out o' the yammcrin' o' an infant o' six months old." As the orphan grew up, ho became noted as the liveliest boy in the neighbourhood. He was the tallest of his age, and the most fearless. About three years after Peter Thorn- ton had taken him under his protection, he sent him to school. But, lively as the orphan Christopher May was, (fin- so wo shall now call him,) he b)' no means shewed an apt- ness to learn. For five years, and he never rose higher than the middle of the class. The teacher was often wroth with the thoughtlessness of his pupil ; and in his displeasure said . — " It is nonsense, sirrah, to say that ye was ever a Spaniard. There is something like sense and stability o' character about the people o' Spain — but you — ye'rc a Frenchman ! — a thoughtless, dancing, setlle-to-nothing fool. Or, if ever ye were a Spaniard, j'e belong to the family o' Don Quixote; his name would be found in the catalogue o' your groat grand- fathers." Even Peter Thornton, though no scholar, -was grieved when the teacher called upon him, and complained of the giddiness of his adopted son, and of the little progress which lie made under his care. " Christie, ye rascal yc," said Peter, stamping his foot, ■what news are these your master tells o' yc} He .s;iys he's ashamed o' ye, and that yc'll never learn." But even for his thoughtlessness, the kind heart of Jenny found an excuse. " Dear me, goodman," said she, "I wonder to hear the maistor and ye talk ; I am surjirised that both o" ye hacna more seuse. Do ye nut take into consideration that the bairn is .earning in a foreign language ? Hail his mofhcrlived, he would hae sjioken .Spanish ; and how can ye expect him to be as glib at the English language as those that w ere learned — born 1 may say — to speak it from the breast?" '•■ True, Jenny," answered Peter, sagely, " I wasna think- ing o' that ; but there may be something in't. Jlaister," added he, addressing the 'teacher, " ye mustua, therefore, be owrc bard wi' the laddie. He is a fine bairn, though he may be dull — and dull I canna think it jiossible he could be, il he would determine to learn." Christopher, however, was as wild on the play-ground as he was dull or thoughtless in the schooi-i-com. Every per- son admired the liapj)y-hearted orphan. Good .Jenny Thorn- ton said that he had been a great comfort to her ; and that all the care she had taken over him was more than repaid by the kindness and gratitude of his heart. They were evi- dent in all he said, and all that he did. Peter also loved the boy ; he said " Kit was an excellent laddie — for his part, in- deed, he never saw his equal. He had now brought him up for nine years, and he could s.-ifely say that he never had occasion to raise a hand to him — indeed he did not remem her the time that ever he bad had occasion to speak an angry -ivord to him ; and he declared that ho should iuherit all that he possessed, as though he had been his own son." JIrs Thornton often shewed to him the rings which had been taken from his mother's finwrs, with the inscriptions thereon; and on such occasions she would say — " Wcel do I remember, liinny, when our goodman came running into the house one morning, shaking as though he had seen an apparition at midnight, and ciying to me, f|uite out o' breath — ' liise — rise, Jenny ! — here is the dead body o' a woman in our stackyard!' 1 canna tell ye what my feelings were when ho said so. I wished not to bilieve him. But had I wakened, and found myself in a grave, I could not have gotten a greater fright. !!\Iy heart louped to my throat, just as if it had gotten a sudden jirk with a person's whole might and strength ! I dinna ken how I got my gown thrown on, for my teeth were chattering in my head — I shakcd liked a 'iiatomy ! And when we did got to the stackyard, there was ye, like a dear wee lamniie, mourning owre the breast o' yer dead mother, wi' yer bits o' bandies pulling impatient- ly at j'cr bonny black hair, kissing her cohl li])S, or pull- ing her by the gown, and crying and uttering words which wo didna understand. And, oh, hinny, but your mother had been a weel-faured woman in her day I — I never saw her but a cold corpse, and I thought, even then, that I had never look- ed upon a bonnier face. She had evidently been a genteel person, but was sore, sore dejected. But she had two rings upon her fingers; one of them was a ring such as married women wear — the other was set wi' precious stones, which those who have seen them say, none but a duchess in this country could wear. Ye must examine them." — And here Mrs Thornton was in the habit of producing the rings which she had carefully locked away, wrapped up in twenty folds of paper, and secured in a housewife which folded together within all. Then she would point out to him the initial letters, the C. F. and the Bl. V., and would add, " That has been your faither and your mother's name when they wore sweethearts — at least so our Peter says, (and he is seldom wrong;) but the little c/ between them — I canna think what it stands for. O Christopher, my canny laddie, it is a jiity but that ye would only endeavour to be a scholar, as ye are good otherwise, and then ye might be able to tell what the c I means. Wiio kens but it may throw some light upon your parentage ; for, if evcryo discover who your jiarents were, it will be through the instrumentality o' these rings. Peter always says that, (and, as I say, he is seldom wrong,) and therefore 1 always keep them locked away, lest ony thing should come owre them; and when they are out o' the drawer, I never sutler them to be out o'niy sight." In the fuluess of iier l'e..-,rt JIrs Tl.ornton *< '«' this story TALES OF THE BORDERS. 25'J ftl Icnst fmr times tn tnu yo, ir, uliiinst in the same worns, anil always exliihitiiifj (lie rings. Her kindly eounsel!:, and llie engent rcusdns \vliiili she urged to ('lirist(i]iher «liy lie .should become a scholar, at length awoke liis slumbering eiu'rgiivs. For the (irst time, lie stood dux of his class, and nnee there, lie stood like a nail driven into a wall, which might not bo removed. His teacher, who was a man of considerable knowledge and reading — (though perhaps not what those calling themselves learned would call a man of li'tiriiiiig — for Iriniicd is a very vague word, and is as fre- (liu'iitly applied where real ignoranci! exists, as to real know- ledge) — that teacher who had formerly said that Christopher coiiKl not be iv Spaniard, because tliat he had not solidity enough wilhin him — now said that he believed lie was one, ,ind not a descendant of Don Quixote ; but, if of anybody, ,1 descendant of /lini wlio gave the immortal Don "a local habitation and a name ;" for he now predicted that Christo- pher May would be a genius. Hut, though ihe orphan at length rose to the head of his tlass, and though ho passed from one class to another, he >vas still the same wild, boisterous, and daring bo}', when they ran shouting from the school, cap in hand, and waving il over their heads, like prisoners relieved from confinement, ll' there was a '(uarrel to decide in the whole school, the orphan Christo|ih:'r was the uq^pire. H' a weak boy, or a cowardly boy, was threatened by another, Chiistopher be- I'ame his champion. If rrow's nest was to be robbed, to achieve which a tott gable was to be climbed, lie did the deed; Via, or when a football match was ta be jdayed on Fasteni IC'en, (or, as it was there called, Pancake Tues- day,) if the orphan once got the ball at his foot, no man could again touch it. His birth-day was not known ; but be could scarce have completed bis thirteenth year when his best friend died, (lood, kinil-heai ted Jenny Thornton — than whom a better woman never brcatJied — was gathered with the dead ; and her last request to her husband was, that he would continue to be the friend ano protector of the poor orphan, and espe- cially that he would take care of the rings wbieli had been found upon his mother's hand. Now, Peter was so over- whelmed with grief at the idea of being parted from her i\ho, ibr ten years, bad been dearer to him than his own pxistence, that he could scared hear her dying words. He followed her collin like a broken-hearted man ; and he 5obl)ed over her grave, like a weaned child on the lap of its mother. Hut many months had not passed when it was evident that the orphan Christopher was the only sincere mourner for .Jenny Thornton. The widower was still in the prime and strength of his days, being not more than two and fort}'. He was a prosperous man — one who had had a cheap farm and a good one ; and it was believed that Peter was able to purchase the land which he rented. Many, indeed, taid that the tenant was a better man than his master — by ll " better man," meaning a richer man. Fair maidens, therefore, and widows to hoot, w ere anxious to obtain the vacant hand of the wealthy widower. Some said that Peter would never forget Jenny, and that he would never marryagain,for thatshe had been to him a « ifeamongst a thousand ; and they spoke of the bitterness of his grief. "Ay," said others, "but we ne'er like to see the tears run owre fast down the cheeks of a man. They shew that Mie heart will soon drown its sorrow. Human nature is very frail ; and a tiling that we thought we would love /"or fi'O- last year, we find that wo only orcnx':oiiiil/>/ ntiicmher that we loved it this. If there be a real mourner for the loss of Mrs Thornton, it's the poor, foreign orphan laddie. Peter, nolw itbstan('iii''all his "reetiiij; at tbeirrave, will ect another Wife before twelve months go round." 'I'hey who said so were in the right. Poor .Tenny liad nt been in liiTgrave eleven months and twenty days, when j e'er lceatcd uithout conrninctii.n Christopher, however, was a strange uoy — (.erha]).? wha some would call a ])rovoking one — and often, when Mrs Thornton pursued him from the house to chastise him, he would hastily climb upon the tops of the houses of the farm servants, and sitting astride upon them, nod down to her triumphantly, as with threats she shook lier hand in his face ; and, smiling, sing — ■ " Loudon's bonny woods and braes.** But his favourite song, on such occasi(ms, was the following. which, if it be not the exact words that he sang, embodies the sentiment — Can I forg^et the woody braes Wliere love an* innocence forefather ; Wlare aft, in early summer-days, I'vfi crooned a sang ainang thefieatber ? C:in I forget my father's hearth — iVIy mother by the ingle spinnin* — Their ^^-eel-pleased look to see the niiith, O' a' their bairnies round them rinnin' ? It u-as a waefu* hour to me, When 1 frae thcui an' love departed : ' The tear was in my mother's ee — iMy father blest me — broken-hearted ; My aulder blithers took my hand — The younkers a* ran frae me greetiu* ! But, waur than this — I couldna stand ACy faithfu' lassie's fdiewecl meetin' ! ^ *f Can I forget her parting kiss, Her last fond look, an' true love token ? Forget an hour sae dear as this 1 Korget ! — the word shall ne'er be spoken I Forgot ! — na, though the foamiu' sea, High hills, and mony a sweepin' liver, May lie between their hearth an' me, My heart shall be at bame forev'er. Now, •vlien Christopher was pursued by his persecutor, lie sought refuge on the house-tops, sitting upon them much after the fashion of a tailor, and carolling the song we have just quoted most merrily. Alany, indeed, wondered that he, never having known tiie hearth of either a father or 3 mother, should have sung such a song; but it was so, ano the or])lian delighted to sing it. Yet we often do many things for which we find it difiicult to assign a reason. There was one am'Jsing trait in the character of Christopher ; and that was, that the more vehemently i\Irs Thornton scolded him, and the more bitter her imprecations against him became, so, while he sat as a tailor on the house top, did his song wax luuder and more loud, and his strain became mer- rier. We have heard women talk of being ready to eat the nails from their fingers with vexation, and on such occasions Wrs Thornton was so. But her anger did not amend the disposition of Christopher, though it often drew down ujion him the indignation of her husband. It has already been mentioned that he struck him once ; and, having done so, he felt no repugnance to do it fre- quently. For it is only the first time that we commit a sin that we have the horror of its commission before us. Tht orphan now became like unto Ishmael ; for every man's hanc was against him, and I might say every wtmian's too. Now during the lifetime of Jenny, he had had everything his own way, and uhatsoever he said was done; some said that he was a spoiled child, and it was at least evident that his humour was never thwarted. This caused him to have tiic more enemies now; and every menial on the farm of Peter Thornton became his jiersecutor. It is the common fate of all favourites — to-day they are treated with abject adulation and to-morrow, if the sun which shone on them be clouded no one thinks himself too low to look on them with disdain. For more than three years, Christopher's life became a scene of continued martyrdom, lie was now, liowever, a tall and powerful young man of seventeen ; and many who had been in the habit of raising thfir hands against him foiinn it discreet to do so no more. But i\Irs Thornton was not of this number she found scmi ■ cause to lift lier hand TALES OF THE BORDERS. Sfil (.'id stiilu' till (ir]i!ia)i, ;is olti'ii a.5 iiu caiiu' iiiio luT prcsoiicc. | Kvc'ii I'tliT, kind as lieoncv,' Imd bouii, trt-atocl liiiu aliiuist ns cniullv as his \v\i\\ It was nut lliat liu dislikul liiiii as sIil' (lid; but slit' had siiuri'd and fretted liis dispositiiin ; and, nn- consciDUsly to himself, fmiu being tlie orjihan's friend, he iieeanie his terror and tormentor. JJut one day, when the violence of Blrs Thornton far exceeded the bounds ef endurance, ('hriNtoi>her turned upon her, and, with the revenge of a Spaniard glistening in his eves, grasped her by the throat. iSliu screamed aloud for I'elp, and her husband and the farm.scrvaijts rushed to her issistanee. ' Hack ! back I" exclaimed Christopher — " woman, give me the rings ! give me the rings ! — they are mine, they were iiiv mother's." l\'ter sprang forward and grasped hold of him. "Touch me not !" exclaimed the orphan ; " I will be your slave no longer ! Give me the rings — my motlier's rings !" I'etor stood aghast at the manner of the boy. His every look, bis every action, bespoke desperation. He thrust his ch'nched hand touards Jlr Thornton, exclaiming — " Touch me not — the rings are mine — I will have them." " The meikle mischief confound ye!" exclaimed Peter, ^vith a look of half fear and bewilderment, " what in a' tiic world is the matter wi' ye, Christopher .'' — is the laddie wit o' his head .'" "The rings ! mv mother's rings!" cried the or|)han; and, as he s|ioke, he grasped more violently the hand of Mrs '1 bornton. " The like o' that, said Peter, " I never saw in my exi.st- K'H'cl In my ojjinion, the laddie is no in his riglit judgment." But Christopher tore the rings from the bauds of JJrs Thornton, exclaiming — " Fare\\'ell \ fare'iiell !" '■Thellkeo' tliat!"said Peter.in amazement,'holdingup his hands; " the laddie is surely daft! — follow him, some o' ye." j\Irs Thornton sank down in hysterics. Her husband en- deavoured to soothe and restore her ; and the men-servants followed Christopher. But it was an idle task. No one had rivalled him in s])eedof foot,andthey could not overtake him. " The time will come," he cried, as be ran, " when Peter 'i'hornton will repent his conduct towards me. Follow me not, for the first «'ho shall lay a hand upon me shall die." The farm servants who pursued him were awed by his manner; aiiil, after following him about a mile, turned back. " ^\'hcre can the huhjle h:i,ve go;ic to.''" said Peter ; " he never took onv o' those tits in Jenny's time. I hope, wife, that vc have done nothing to him that ye ought not to liave done." " lAIe done to him !" she cried — "ye will brieg up your beggars, and this is your reward." " i\Irs Thornton," answered he, " I am amazed and aston- i^hed to behold this conduct iu CJiristo])Jier. For more than a dozen vears be has been an inmate beneath my roof; seldom have I had to quarrel him, and never until you became my wife." The words between Peter and his better half grew loud and angry ; but, instead of describing their matrimonial altercations, we shall follow the yr])han Cbrlstojdier. 15ut, before accomiianying him in his flight from the house I'f Peter Thornton, we shall go buck a few years, and take up another part of his history. There resided in the neighbourhood in \vhich Christopher had been brought up, one George ^\'ilkinson, who bad a daughter named Jessie. Christojiherand Jessie were scliool- Miates togetlier; and when the other children ran hallooing (Voni the school, tbev walked together, whispering, smiling it each other. It was strange that affection slioubl have sprung up In such young hearts. But it was so. Christopherbecamc the one absorbing thought upon 'vliich the mind of Jessie dwelt ; and she became the day dream of uis being. She was comparatively a child u hen li,' left the house of his foster-father — so was he; yet, although tlu'\' be- came thus early parted, they forgot not each other. \ onng as she was, Jessie Wilkinson lay on her bed anhew of an luijuisitor. Ht' vowed to have his revvlige — and he has "lad it. In the dead of night, a band of ruffians burst into tne bed.chatnber of JIaria's father, and dragged him to the dun- geons of the Inquisition. For several weeks, and we could learn nothing of what had become of him ; but his property was seized and confiscated, as though he had been a common felon. My wife was then the mother of an infant son, and I ciideavoured to effect our concealment, until an opportu- nity of escaping to England might bo found. AVe had ap- proached within a hundred yards of the vessel, when a band of armed men rushed upon us. They overpowered me; ana while one party bore away mv wife and child, others dragged me into a carriage, one holding a pistol to my breast, while another tied a bandage over my eyes. They continued to drive with furious rapidity, for about six hours, when I was torn from the carriage, and dragged, between the ruf- fians, through numerous winding passages. I heard the grating of locks, and the creaking of bolts, as they proceeded, Door succeeded door, groaning on their unwilling hinges, as they ascended stairs, and descended others, in an intermin- able labyrinth. Still the men who hurried mo onward main tained a sullen silence ; and no sound was lieard, save the clashing of prison doors, and the sepulchral echo of their footstejis ringing through the surrounding dungeons. Tliey .at length stopped. A cord, suspended from a block in the roof, was fastened round my waist; and when one, turning a sort of windlass, which communicated with the other end of the cord, raised me several feet from the ground, his comrade drew a knife, and cut asunder the fastenings that bound my arms. While one, holding the handle of the ma- chine, kept me hanging in the air, other two applied a key to a large square stone in the floor, which, aided by a sjiring, they with some difficulty raised, and revealed a yawning opening to a dungeon, vet deeper and more dismal than that which formed its entrance. The moment mv , hands were at liberty, I tore the bandage from my eyes, and perceiving, through the aid of a dim lamp that flickered in a corner of the vault, the horror of my situation. I struggled in desperation. But my threatenings and my groans were answered only by their hollow echoes, or the more dismal laughter of my ass.assins. " ' Down ! do^'u !' vociferated both voices to their com- panion, as the stone was raised ; and, in a moment, I was plunged to the dark mouth of the dungeon. 1 uttered a cry of agony, louder and longer than the rest ; and, as my body sunk into the abyss, 1 clutched its edge in despair. One of the rufHans sjirang for" ard, and, blas]>!ieming as he raised his foot, dashed his iron heels U])on my fingers. Mine was the grasp of a dying man ; and, thrusting forward my right hand, 1 seized tlie ancle of the monster, who, attempting to kick me in the face, Mith my left I strengthemd my hold, and my body plunging downward with themovement, dragged after me the wietch, who, uttering a piercing shriek, a.<' his head dashed on the brink of the fearful dungeon, hi: weight wrested him from my gras]>, and with an impreca- tion on his tongue he was jilunged headlong into darkness, many fathoms deep. Startled by the cry of his comrade, the other sprang from the machine by which he was lower- ing me into the vault ; and 1 in consequence descended with the violence of a stone driven from a strong arm. But. be- fore I reached the bottom, the cord by which 1 hung w.-is expended, and I swung in torture between the sides of the dungeon. In this state of agony I remained for seveial minutes, till one of the miscreants cutting the rope, I fell with my face U]ion the bloody and mangled body of theii i accomplice ; and the huge stone was placed over us, enve- loping both in darkness, solid and substantial as the pit of wrath itself. " A paralyzing feeling of horror and surprise, and the violence with which 1 fell U])on the mangled body of my victim, for a time deprived me of all consciousness of n\J situation • nor was 'l until the convulsive groans of t^'"* TALES OF Tlir: BOUDKIIS. 'iG;j l)l^\^iliii^ urctcli Ih'IK'.iUi ini', ri'calli'J inc, in sdiul' inoasuro, CO II soiiso of ollior iiiiscric's tliaii my own, llwit n romi'in- hnitice (if tlic jiast, nnd a feuliii;; of the |iri'sciit, opeiR'd \i|ion my mimi, like tlie confused terror of n disniid droam. 1 rose slo\\ly to my feet, and, disen^aj;inj; myself from tlie rupe by whieli I was snsjieiided into the vault, endeavoured lo look around the walls of my prison-house — hut all was (lark as the f;rave. lU'coUeetiuf^ the ]iart sustained in seiz- ing me by the Udunded man, «'ho still {jroaned and writhed at my feet, 1 darted fiercely upon Idni ; and hurlinj; him from the "ironnd, exclaimed — ' \'il!ain ! — tell me, or die ! — where am 1 ? or hy whom am 1 lirout;ht here.'' A loud, lonjj yell of terror, accom|)anied by violent and desjiairing KtrujTfjles, like a wild beast teariuj; from the paws of a lion, was the only answer returned by tlic miserable being. And »s the |n'teons and lioart-]n'ercing yell rang round the cavern, and its echoes, multiplying in darkness, at length died away, leaving silence more doloious than ourselves, 1 felt as a man from the midst of a marriage-feast, suddenly thrust into the cells of liedlam ; :vhere, instead of the music of the harp and the lute, \\as the shriek and the clanking chains of in- sanity ; for bridal ornaments, the madman's straw ; and fur (he gay dance, the convulsions of the maniac, and the sor- rowful gestures of idiocy. Every feeling of indignation passed auay — my blood grew cold — the skin moved upon Miy Hesh — I again laid the wretched man on the damp earth, and fearfully groped to the ojiposite side of the dungeon. " As I mo\e(l around, feeling tl-.rough the dense darkness of my prison, I found it a vast Sfjuare, its sides coni]iose(l merely of the rude strata of earth or rock ; and measuring nearly six times the length of my extended arms. As often BS I moved, bones seemed to crackle beneath my feet ; and a noise, like the falling of armour, and the sounding of steel, accompanied the crumbling fragments. Once I stooped to ascertain the cause, and raising a heavy body, a part of it fell with a loud, hollow crash among my feet, leaving the lighter ]>ortion in my hands. It was a round bony substance, covered, and partly tilled with damp cold dust. I was neither superstitions nor a coward : but, as I drew my hand around it, my body fjuivered — the hair ujion my head moved — and my heart felt heavy. It was the form of a human skidl. 'riie dam]) dust had once been the temple of a liv- ing soul. l\Iy lingers entered the sockets of the eyes — the teeth fell in my hands — and the still fresh and dewy hair t>vined around it. I snudderea — ;t fell from my liands — the chill of death |)assed over me. The horrid conviction that I was immured in a living grave, absorbed every other feeling ; and, smiting my brow in horror, 1 threw myself, with a groan, amidst the dead of other years. " I again sprang to my feet with the undetermined and confused wildness of despair. The mournful bowlings of llie assassin continued to render the horrid sepulclire still more horrible, and gave to its darkness a deejier ghostliness. Dead to every emotion of sympathy, stricken with dismal realities, and more terrible imaginations, yet burning for revenge, directed by the bowlings of the miserable man, and hesitating to distinguish between them and their incessant echoes, stretching my hands before me, I again ajijiroached him, to extort a confession of the cause and jilace of my imprisonment, or rather living burial. \'aiidy I raised liim from the ground — threatening, soothing, and expostulation were alike unavailing. On hearing my voice, the miserable being shrieked with redoubled bitterness, ]ilunged furiously, and gnashed his teeth, fastening them, in the extremity of liis frenzy, in his own llesli. His tierce agony recalled to my bosom an emotion of jiity ; and, for a mtmient, forgetful of my own injuries and condition, I thought only of reliev. ing his snireriug ; but my presence seemed to add new nuid- ness to his tortures ; and he tore himself from my hold with the lamentable yells of a tormented mastitl', and the strength '>f a giant, who, in the last throe of exniring nature Eraj pies witli his cim(|Ueror. lie reeled wildly a few pace'i, and fell, witli a crash, u])on the earth. " Slowly and dismally the hours moved on, with m) sound to measure their progress, save the aiulible beating of my own heart, and the death-like howling moan of n.y com- panion. As 1 leaned against the wall, counting these dis- mal divisions of time, which appeared thus fearfully to nu'te out the duration of my existence, through the black darkiK'ss, whose weight had become .op|)ressive to my eye- balls, 1 beheld, far above me, on the opjiosite wall, a faint shadow, like the ghost of light, streaking its side, but so indistinct and imperfect, I knew not whether it was fancy or reality. With the earnestness of death, my eyes renniined fixed on the ' gloomy light ;' and it threw upon my bosom a hope dim as itself. Again I doubted its existence — deemed it a creation of my brain ; and groping along the damp Hoor, where my hand seemed jiassing over the ribs of a skeleton, I threw a loose fragment in the air, towards the point from whence the doubted glimmering proceeded ; an( perceived for a moment, as it fell, the shadow oi' a substance. Then, sjiringing forward to the S])ot, I gasped to inhale, with its feeble ray, one breath that was not agony. " Thirst burned my lips, and, to cool them, they were pressed against the damp walls of the prison; but my timguu was still dry — my throat ])arched — and hunger began to |)rey uj)on me. While thus sutfering, a faint light streamed from a narrow opening in the roof of the vault. Slowly a feeble lamp was lowered through the aperture, and descemled within two or three feet of my head. A small basket, c(m- tainiug a portion of bread and a ])itcher of water, sus. jiended by a cord, was let down into the vault. I seized the pitcher, as I would have rushed upon liberty ; and rais. ing I't to my lips, as the ]mre, grateful beverage allayed the fever of my thirst, I shed a solitary tear, and, in the midst of my misery, that tear was a tear of joy — like the morn- ing-star gilding the horizon, when the surrounding heavens are wrapt in tempest. \\'ith it the feelings of the Christian ami the man met in my bosom ; and, bending over my fel- low-sufferer, I apjjlied the water to his lips. The poor wretch devoured the draught to its last drop with greediness. " The presence and the unceasing groans of my companion — yea, the dungeon, and darkness themselves, were forgotten in the (me deadening ami bitter idea, that my wife and cliilij were also captives, and in the power of ruflians. If any other thought was indulged a moment, it was longing for liberty, that I might Hy to their rescue — and it was then only that I became again sensible of captivity ; and my eyes once more sought the dubious gleam that stretched fitfully across the wall, becoming more evident to perception, as 1 became inured to the surrounding blackness. Hope burned and brightened, a.s I traced the source of its dreamy shadows; and, from thence, weaved plans of esca]ie, which, in the cal- culation of fancy, were already as performed ; though, before reason and common possibilities, they would have perished as the dewy nets that, with the damps of an autumnal morning, overspread the hawthorn w ith their spangled lace- work, and, before the rising sunbeam, shrink int.) nothing " Hut gradually my grief and despair subsided, and gave place to the cheering influence of hope, and the resolution of attempting my escape ; and I rose to eat the bread ami drink the water of ca])tivitv, to strengthen me for the task. For many hours, the presence of my companion had been forgotten ; he still continued to howl, as one whom the horrors of an accusing conscience was withholding from the grasp of death ; and I, roused from the reverie of my feel- ings and projects at the sound of his sufferings, hastened to ajiply uater and morsels of bread to the lips of my perish- ing fellow-])risoner ; for bread and water had been lowered into the vault. " In order to carry my plan of escape into efTect. for lh<' first time, aided by the lamp that was suspcndcl over n e 1 -rit TALES OF THE BOEDERS. pnzcd inr|iiisitivply, and vi(li a fcclinjr of disnia)-, around the Gol^^otlui ill ivliicli I was imnnirod. Tlicre lay my liideous companion, llie foam of pain and insanity gurgling from his moutli; heside him the skeleton of a mailed warrior, and around. Ihe uiicofhned hones of funr others, partly covered «itli their armour, and * The brands yet rusted in their bony hands.' " Altliough prepared for such a scene, I placed my liands iicfore tny eyes, shuddering at the thought of becoming as one of those — of being their companion while I lived — of King down by the side of a skeleton to die I The horror of the idea fired anew my resolution, and added more than liumaT strength to my arm. I again eagerly sought the direction of the doubtful gleam, which fo:merly filled me with hope; and was convinced that from thence an ojiening might be effected, if not to perfect libcrtv, to a sight of the blessed liglit of heaven, where freedom, I dreaded not, would easily be found. Filled with determination, wdiich no obstacle could impede, I took one of the swords, which had lain by tlie side of its owner, untouched for ages, and with this in- strument commenced the laborious and seemingly impossible task, of cutting out a flight of steps in the rude wall, and thereby gain the invisible aperture, from which something like liglit was seen to emanate. The ray proceeded from an ex- treme angle of the dungeon, and apparently at its utmost lieight. The materials on which I had to work, were chiellya hard gra- nite rock,andotlier lighter, but scarce more manageablestrata. '•Several anxious and miserable weeks thus passed in slug- gish succession. Half of my task was accomplished ; aud hope, witii impatience, looked forward to its completion. I still divided my scanty meals with mv companion, who, al- though recovered from the bruises occasioned by his fall, was become more horrible and fiend-like than before. As his body resumed its functions, his mind became the terrible imaginings of a guilty conscience. lie had either lost, or forgotten tlie power of walking upright, and prowled, howling around the dungeon, on his liands and feet ; while his dark bushy beard, and revolting aspect, gave him more the manner and appearance of a wild beast than a human being. " Our ])ortion of food being barely sutlicient for the sus- tenance of one, hunger had long been added to the list of our surterings ; but particularly to those of the maniac. Aud, with Ihe cunning peculiar to such unfortunates, he watched the return of the basket, which was dailv lowered with prj- visions, and frequently before I — who, absorbed in the com- pletion of my task, forgot or heeded not mv jailer's being within hearing — could descend to the ground, he would grasp the basket, swallow olf the water at a draught, and hurry with the bread to a corner of a dungeon ; thus leaving nie without food for the next twenty fair hours. "It was at the period when I had half completed my ob- ject, that my companion springing, as was his wont, upon the basket, before I could approach to withho'd him, I ))er- ceived he had drained off tlie contents of a goblet, in which a few drops of a dark coloured liquid still lemained ; and the pitcher of water was untouched. The wretched maniac had swallowed the draught but a few minutes, when, rolling himself together, his screams and contortions became more frightful than before, and increasing in virulence for an hotir, he lay motionless a few seconds, gasping for breath ; and springing suddenly to his feet, lie gazed wistftilly ab ive and around liim, with a look of extreme agony, and exclaiming, ' Heaven help me !' lie rusliod fiercely towards the wall in the opposite direction to where I was attempting to effect mv escape, gave one furious pull, at what appeared the solid rock, and with a groan, fell buck and expired. "When the horror occasioned by his death, in some degree abated, the singularity of the manner in which he tore at the wall of the dungeon, fixed my attention ; and with alffiosl frantic joy, T perceived that a portion of the hitherti thought impenetrable rocK, liaa yielded .several inches tc his dying grasp. 1 hastily removed the body, and pullins; eageilv at the unloosed fragment, it fell upon the ground, .» rough unhewn lump >f granite, leaving an opening of about two feet square in the rude rocky wall, from which it was so cut, as to seem to feeling and almost appearance, iv solid part of it. "^ly task was now abandoned. The gleam of liglit, whicli, for weeks was to me an object of such intense iatere.st, pro- ceeded from a mere hairbreadth cleft in the rock. Taking up a sword -.vhich lay upon the ground, I drew my body in- to the a| erture formed by the removal of the piece of rock ; and creeping slowly on my hands and knees, groping with the weapon before me, I at length found the winding and dismal passage sutiicienlly lofty to permit me to stand erect I seemed enveloped in an interminable cavern, now opening into spacious chambers, clothed with crystal ; again losing itself in low passages, or narrow chinks of the rock, and sud- denly terminating in a slippery precipice, beneath whicli gurgling waters were heard to run. Hours and hours pas- sed ; still I was groping onward; when I suddenly found my hopes cut off, by the interposition of a precipice. I probed fearfully forward with the sword, but all was an unsubstan- tial void ; 1 drew it on each side, and there it met but the solid walls. I knelt, and reached down the .sword to the length of my arm, but it touched nothing. In agony, I drop- ped the weapon, bv its sound to ascertain the depth ; and, delighted, found it did not exceed eight or ten feet. I cau- tiously slid down, and groping around, again placed mv hand upon the sword. Though my lieait occasionally sank within me, yet the overcoming of each ditticulty lent its inspiring aid to overcome its succes.sor. Often every hope appeared extinct. Now I ascended, or again descended tlie dropping and crystaled rocks ; now crept into openings, which suddenly terminated, and turning again, anxiously listened to the sound of the rippling water as my only guide. Often, in spite of every precaution, I was stunned with a blow from the abrupt lowness of the roof,or suddenly plunge" to the arms in the numerous pools, v.hose waters had bee . dark from their birth. " Language cannot convey an idea of the accumulating horrors of my situation. Struggling with suffocation, with a feeling more awful than terror, and with despair, the tigony of darkness must be crpcriosced to be imagined. " Still I moved on ; and suddenly, when ready to sink wearied, fainting, hopeless, the glorious light of day streamed upon my sight. 1 bounded forward with a wild shout; but the magnificent sun, bursting from the eastern heavens, blinded my unaccustomed gaze. "I again found that I was free — but my wife! — my child ! — where were they .'' It was many years before that I learned that the nephew of the Inquisitor who had souglil her band, having died, she regained her liberty, and lied wit!, our infant son to Scotland, to seek the home of her lost husband. Since then I have never heard of them again." When the Major had thus concluded his narrative — " Here," said Christopher, " are two rings which were taken from the fingers of my mother — both bear inscriptions." The old officer gazed upon them. " They were hers — m\ Maria's," he exclaimed ; " I myself placed them upon hei fingers ! Son of my JIaria, thou art mine I" The Major purchased a commission for his long-lost son and when peace was proclaimed throughout Europe, they returned to Northumbeiland together, where Christo)ihir gave his sword as a memorial to his foster-father, Peter Thornton, and his hand to Jessie Wilkinson. 'af^ W I L S O N'S 3i)t',o"toftrrtI, arrittonari), anli r-mnatnatibw TALES OF THE BORDERS. THE FUGITIVE. CIIArXER I. Whkn Prince Chailos Edward, at the head of his hardy llighhiiulcrs, took U]) his headquarters in Edinburgh, issu- ing proi'hiniations and hohling levees, amongst those who attended the hitter was a young Englishman, named Ilcnrv Blaekett, then a student at the university, and the son of a Sir John Blaekett of Winbm-n Priory, in Cheshire. His mother had been a IMiss Cameron, a native of Inverness- bhire, and the daughter of a poor but proud military officer. From her he had" imbibed principles or prejtidices in favour of the house of Stuart ; and when he had been introduced to the young adventurer at IIoljTood, and witnessed the zeal of his army, his enthusiasm was kindled — there was a romance in the undertaking which pleased his love of enterprise, and he resolved to offer his sword to the Prin<;e, and hazard his fortunes with hini. The offer was at once gi-aciously and gratefully accepted, and Henry Blaekett was enrolled as an officer in the rebel army. lie followed the Prince through prosperity and adversity, and when Charles became a fugitive in the land of his fathers. Ilcnry Blaekett was one of the last to forsake him. He, too, was hunted from one hiding-phice to another; like him whom lie had served, he was a fugitive, and a jirice was 3ct upon his head. As has been stated, he imbibed his principles in favour of the house of Stuart from his mother ; but she had been dead for several 3'ears. His father was a weak man — one ef whom it may be said that he had no principles at all ; but being knighted by King George, on the occasion of his per- forming some civic duty, he became a violent defender of the house of Bninsmck, and he vowed that, if the law did not, he would diamlierit his son for having taken up arms in defence of Charles. But what chiefly sti-engthcned him in this resolution, was not so much his devotion for the reigning family, as his attachment to one ]\Iiss Norton, the daughter of a Squire Norton of Norton Hall. She was a young lady of much beauty, and mistress of what are called accomplishments ; but, in saying this much, I have recorded all her virtues. Her father's character might be summed np in one brief sentence — he was a deep, designing, needy villain. He was a gambler — a gentleman by birth — a knave in practice. He had long been on terms of familiarity with Sir John Blaekett — he knew his weakness, and he knew his wealth, and he rejoiced in the attachment which he saw Lira manifesting i'or his daughter, in the liope that it would be the means of bringing his estates wHthin his control. But the proi)erty of Sir John being entailed, it consequcntl)' would devolve on Heiu-y as his only surviving son. He, therefore, was an obstacle to the accomplishment of the schemes on which Norton brooded ; and when tlie latter found that he had joined tlie army of the young Chevalier, he was chicflv instrumental in having his name included in •M. Vol. I. the list of those for whose apprehension rewards were offered ; and he privately, and at his own expense, emplo3'ed spies to go in quest of him. He also endeavoured to excite his fathei more bitterly against him. Nor did his designs rest hcie — • but, as he behchl the fondness of the knight for his daughter increase, he, with the cunning of a demon, proposed to hi!:! to break the entail ; and when the other inquired how it could be done, he replied — " Nothing is more simple ; denj him to be your heir — pronounce him illegitimate. There is no living witness of your man-iage with his mother. The only document to prove it is some thumb? d leaf in the regi- ster of an obscure parish church in the Highlands of Scot- land ; and we can secure it." To this most unnatural propos.al the weak and wicked old man consented ; and I shall now descrilje the means em- ployed' by Norton to become possessed of the parish register refeiTcd to. Squire Norton had' a son who was in all respects worthy of such a father — he was the image of his mind and person. j In short, he was one of the things who, in those days, resembled those who in our own call themselves men of the ii'or/d, forsooth! and who, under that name, infest and cor- rupt society — making a boast of their worthlcssness — poison- ing innocence — triumphing in their work of ruin — and laugti- ing, hkc spirits of desolation, over the daughter's misery and disgrace, the father's anguish, the «Tetched mother's tears, and the shame of a family, which they have accomplished. There are such creatures, who disgrace both the soul and the shape of man, who are mere shreds and patches of debauch- ery — sweepings fr-om the shops of the tailor, the milliner and the hair-dresser — who live upon the plunder obtained under false pretences from the industrious — who giggle, ogle, pat a snuff-box, or affect to nod in a church, to be thought sceptics or fine gentlemen. One of such -tvas young Norton ; and he was sent down to Scotland to destroy the only proof which Henry Blaekett, in "the event of bis being pai-doned could bring forward in support of his legitimacy. He arrived at a lonely viHage in InveiTiess-shire, neai whict the cottage formerly occupied by ]\Iajor Cameron, the p-andlather of Henry, was situated ; and of whom he found thftt few of the inhabitants remembered more than that " there lived a man." Finuiug the only inn that was in the village much more cleanly and comfortable than he had anticipated, he resolved to make it his hotel during his residence, and inquired of the landlady if there were anyone in the village with whom a gentleman eoidd sjiend an evening, and obtain informaliou respecting the neigh- bourhood. " Fu' shurely ! fu' shurely, sir !" replied his Ilighlaiid hostess — " there jie te auld tominie." " yVho ?" inquired he, not exactly comprehending h«r Celtic accent. " Wha put te auld tominie .^" returned she ; "an" a tis- crcet. goot shentleman he ])e as in a' te toun." " The dominie ? — the dominie .''" he repeated, in a tone of perplexity. 26C TALES OF THE BORDERS. " Olgli ! oigli ! te toiulnif," added slie, " tat teaches te pits o' iiiiirns, an' raises te psalm in te kirk." lie now comprehended licr meaning ; and, from ner coujiling the dominia's name mth the kirk, believed that he might be of use to him in the accomplishment of his olijoct, and desired that he might be sent for. " Oigh !" returned she, smiling, " an' he no pe lang, for he like te trappie unco weel." Within five minutes, Dugald JIackay, precentor, teacher, and parish-clerk of Glencleugh, entered the parlour of Mrs JMacnal). Never was a more striking contra.st exhibited in castle or in cottage. Here stood young Norton, be- decked with all the foppery of an exquisite of his day ; and there stood Dugald IVIaekay, liis thick busliy grey hair filling on liis shoulders, holding in his hand a hat not half the size of his liead, which liad neither been made nor bought for him, and which had become brown with service, mid was now stitched in many places, to keep it together. ]{(iund it was wrapped a naiTow stripe of crape browner than itself, and over all winded several yards of gut and hair-line, with hooks attached, betokening his angling propensities. Dugahl was a thickset old man, with a face blooming like his native heather. Ilis feet were thrust into immense brogues, .as brown as his hat, and their for- midable patches shewed that their wearer could use the lingle and clslmn, although his profession was to " teach the young idea jiow to shoot." lie wore tartan hose — black breeches, fastened at the knees by silver gilt buckles, and much the worse for the we.ar, while, from the ac- cumulation of ink and dust, they might h.ave stood upright. His vest was huge and double-breasted, its colour not recognised by painters ; and his shoulders were co- vered liy a very small tartan coat, the tails of which hardly reached his waist. Such was Dugald Mackay ; and the youth, plying him with the bottle, endeavoured to as- certain how far he could render him subservient to his purpose. " You appear fond of angling," said Norton. "Fond o' fishing.?" returned the man of led'crs ; "on aj' ! ou ay ! — bur hac mony time filt te creel o' te shen- tlemen frae Inverness, for te sixpence, nd te shilling, and te pig cro«ni, not to let tem gaun pack wi' te empty pasket. And hur will teach your honour, or tress your honour's hooks, should you be stopping to fish. Here |ie goot s])Ort to your honour," continued lie, raising a bumper to his lips. The other, glad to assign a plausible pretext for his visit, said that he h:id come a few days for tlie sake of fishing, and inquired hoxv long his guest had been in the neighbour- hood. "Hur peen schulemaister and parish-cleik in Glencleugh for forty year," replied Dugald. " Parish-clerk !" said Norton, eagerl}% and checking himself, continued — '■ that is — in the church you mean, you raise the tunes .'" " Ou ay, hur nainsel' pe preccntcr too," answered Dugald; "put hur be schulemaister and parish-clerk into te pargain." " And what are your duties as parish-clerk }" inquired the other, in a tone of indifference. " Ou, it pe to keep te pooks wi' te marriages, te cliris- enings, and te deaths. Here pe to your honour's very goot hick again," said he, swallowing another bumper. Thus the ludder of the birch and parish chronicler began to help himself to one glass after another, until the candles began to dance reels and strathsjicvs before him. At length the angler, expressing a wish to see such a curiosity as the matrimonial Jind baptismal register of a hamlet so remote, out sallied Dugald, descriliing curved lines as he went, muT shortly returned, bearii'.g the «-ventful (lu.irtos undor [his arm. Norton looked through them, laughing, jesting, land professing to be amused, and his eye quickly fell upon the page which he sought. Dugald laughed, drank, and talked, until his rough head sank upon his breast, and certain nasal sounds gave notice that the schoolmaster was abroad. In a moment, Norton transferred the leaf which contained the certificate ol Lady Blackett's marriage, from the volume to his pocket. His father had ordered him to destroy it ; but the son, vicious as the father, deter- mined to keep it, and to hold it over him as an instrument of teiTor to extort money. The dominie being roused to take one glass more by way of a night-cap, was led home as usual, by Mrs Jlacnab's servant-of-all-work who caiTieil the volumes. Shortly after this, the marriage between Sir .Jokn Blackctt and Miss Norton took place ; her father rejoiced in the success of his schemes, and Henry w;is disinherited and disowned. CILVTTER II. While the bitter events which we have recorded in the last chapter were taking place, Ilcmy Blackett, the rebel soldier, was a fugitive, flying from hiding-place to hiding- place, seeking concealment in the mountains and in the glens, in the forest and crowded citj", assuming every dis- guise, and hunted from covert to covert. A rew.ard was not offered for his apprehension, in particular, by govern- ment, but he- was included amongst those whom loyal sub- jects were forbidden to conceal ; and two emissaries, sent out by Norton, sought him continually, to deliver him up. Ignorant of his father's marriage, or of the villain's part he had acted towards him, though conscious of his anger at his having joined Prince Charles, he was wander- ing in Dumfries-shire, by the shores of the Solway, dis- guised as a sailor, and watching an opportunity to return home, when the hunters after his life suddenly spninp upon him, exclaiming — "Ha! Bkackett, the traitor I — the the five hundred pounds are ours !" Anned only with the branch of a tree, which he carrica partlv for defence and as a walking-stick, he repelled them with the desperate fierceness of a man whose life is at stake One he disabled, and the other, being unable to contend against him singlv. permitted him to escape. He rushed at his utmost sjiced across the fields for many miles, avoid- ing the highwaj's and public paths, until he sank punting and exhausted on the giound. He had not lain long in this situation when he was discovered by a we;ilthy farmer, who was knorni in the neighbourhood by the appeUation o' " canny Willie Gidloway." " Puir young cliield," said Willie, casting on him a look of compassion, "ye seem sadly distressed. Do ye think 1 could be o' ony service to ye .'' From ycr appearance, ve wadna be the waur o' a nicht's lodging, and I can only say that ye arc heartily welcome to't." Henry had been so long the object of pursuit and per- secution, that he regarded every one with suspicion ; and starting to his feet and grasping the branch finner in his hand, he said — " Know you what you say.'' — or would you 1)etray the wretched ?" " It is o' nao m.anner o' use gripping your stick," s.aid Willie, calmly, " for I'm allooed to be a first-rate cudgel- player — the best atweeii Stranraer and Dumfiies. But, ;\3 I to kennin' what I said, I was offerin' ye a nicht's lodgings; and as to betra^"in' the wretched. I wadna sec a hawk strike doon a spaiTOW. not a spir the inventions and deceit- fulness o' m«n's heart, this earth would be a paradise still. But I tell ye what, freend— I believe that were an irreligi- ous man just to get up before sunrise at a season like this, and gang into the fields and listen to the laverock, and look round on the earth, and on the majesty o' th« heavens rising, he wadna stand for half an hoor until, if naebody were seeing him, he would drap doun on his knees and pray." Much of Willie's sermon was lost on the old man ; he, however, comprehended a part, and said, " Why, sir, I know as how I always find my mind more in tune for the service of tlie church by a walk in the fields, and the singing of the birds, than by all the instruments of the orchestra." "Orchestra!" said Willie, "what do ye mean? — that's a strange place to gather devotion frae!" "The orchestra of the church," returned the other. "The orchestra o' the church!" said Willie, in surprise— "what's that? I never heard o't before. There's the poopit and the precentor's deslc, the pews and the square seats, and doun stairs and the gallery — but ye nonplus me about the orchestra." "Why, our lord of the manor," continued the old man, "is one who cares for nothing that's good, and he will give nothing ; and as we are not rich enough to buy an organ, we have only a bass viol, two tenors, and a flute." " Fiddles and a flute in a place o' worship ! " exclaimed Willie. "Yes, sir," replied the other, marvelling at his manner. " Weel," returned Willie, standing suddenly still, and striking his stafi" upon the ground, "that beats a' ! And will ye tell me, sir, hoo it is possible to worship yer Creator by scraping catgut or blawing wind through a hollow stick? " " Why, master," said the old man, " the use of instru- ments in worship is as old as the times of the prophets, and I can't see why it should be given up. But dost thou think, now, that thou couldst go into Chester cathedral at twOight, while the organ filled all round about thee with its deep music, without feeling in thy heart that thou wast in a house of praise. Why, sir, at such a time thou couldst not commit a wicked action. The very^ound, while it lifted up thy soul with delight, v;ould awe thee." When their controversy had ended, Willie inquired — " Do ye ken a femily o' th« name o' Blackett that lives aboot this neeborhood ? " "I should," answered tlie old man ; "forty years did I eat of their 'bread." "Then, after sic lang service, ye'll just be like ane o' the family?" replied Willie. "Alas!" said the other, shaking his head. " Ye dlnna mean to say," resumed Willie, in a tone of surprise, "that they hae turned ye afF, in your auld age, as some heartless wretch wad sell the nobl« animal that had carried him when a callant, to a cadger, because it liad grown howe-backet, and lost its speed o' foot. But I hope that yovmg Mr. Henry had nae hand in it? " " Henry 1 — no !— no ! " cried the old man eagerly — " bkss him I Did you know Mr. Henry, your honour? " "I did," said Willie; "and I hae come from Scotland ance errand to see him." " But, sir," inquired the old man, tremulously, " do you know where to find him ? " " I expect to find him, by this time, at his father's house." " Alas ! " answered the old domestic, " there has been no one at the Priory for more than twelve months. I don't know where the old knight is. Henry has not been here since he went to Edia'-urgh, and that is nigh to five years gone now." "Ye dumfounder me, auld man," exclaimed Willie; " but where, in the name o' guidness, where's the wife?^ Where's Mrs. Blackett ? " " You will mean your countrywoman, I suppose," said the other. "To be sure I mean her," said Willie — " wha else could I mean?" " Ah! wo is me!" sighed his companion, and he burst into tears as he spoke, "dost see the. churchyard just before us? — and they have raised no stone to mark the spot." "Deadl" ejaculated Willie, becoming pale with horror, and fixing upon his fellow-pedestrian a look of agony — "Ye dinna say — dead!" "Even so! — even so!" said the old domestic, sobbing aloud. " And hoo was it ?" cried Willie ; " was it a fair strae death — or just grief, puir thing, just grief?" " Why, I can't say how it was," answered his ioformant; " but I wish I durst tell all I think." "Say it! — say it!" exclaimed Willie, vehemently, "what do ye mean by, if you durst say all ye think ? If there be the shadow o' foul play, I will sift it to the bottom, though it cost me a thousand pounds ; and there is anither that will gie mair." " Ah, sir, I am but a friendless old man," replied the other, " that could not stand th« weight of a stronger arm." "Plague take their arms!" cried WUlie, handling his cudgel, as if to shew the strength of his own — "tell what ye think, and they'll have strong arms that dare touch a hair o' yer head." " Well, master," was the reply, " I don't like to say too much to strangers, but if thou makest any stay in these parts I may tell thee something ; and I fear that whereTer poor Henry is, he is in need of friends. But perhaps your honour would wish to see her grave ? " " Her grave ! " ejaculated Willie — " yes ! yi's I yes ! — her grave ! — O misery! have I come frae Dumfries-shire to see a sicht like this ? " The old man led the way over the stile, hanging his head and sighing as he went. Willie followed him, drawing his sleeve across his eyes, as was his custom when his heart was touched, and forgetting the dress of the gentleman which he wore, in the feelings of the man. "The family vault is in yonder corner," said his conduc- tor, as they turned across the churchyard. " Save us, friend !" exclaimed Willie, looking towards the spot, " saw ye ever the like o' yon? — a poor miserable dementit creature, wringing his hands as though his heart would break ! " "'Tis hel 'tis he!" shouted the old man, springing for- ward with the alacrity of youth, " my child ! — my dear young master ?" " Oh ! conscience o' man !" exclaimed Willie, "what sort j o' a dream is this? It canna be possible 1 Her dead, and] him oot o' his judgment, mourning owre her grave in the! garb o' a beggar 1" " Ha 1 discovered again 1 " cried Henry fiercely, and I starting round as he spoke; but immediately recognising'! the old domestic, on whom time had not wrought such a ', metamorphosis as dress had upon Willie Galloway — "Ha, Jonathan ! old Jonathan Holditch !" he added, "do I again see the face of a friend I" and instantly discovering Willie, he sprang forward and grasped his extended hand in both i of his. The old man sat down upon the grave and wept. "Don't weep, Jonathan," said Henry, "I trust that wa | shall soon have cause to rejoice." " I wish a' may be richt yet," thought Willie ; " I took | TALES OF THE BORDERS. 2(J9 Wm to be ratl..rr deineiitit :it the first glance, and rejoice is ratljer a strai'.ije wuiil to use owre a young wife's grave. Puir fellow !" " Yes, Master Henry," said Jonathan, " I do rejoice that the worst is past ; hut I must woe]) too, for there be many tilings iu all this lliat 1 do n(pt uiulerstand." " Nor nie either," said Willie ; " but ve say ye think nuire than ve dare tell. " " Wliy is it, Jonathan," coiitin\ied Ilenrv, " that there is no stone to mark my mother's grave.'' 'I here is room enough in our burial place. \\h\ is there nothing to her niemorv?" he coutiiuied, bending his eyes upon lier sepul- chre. •' lier memoii/ !" he added ; " cold, cruel grave ; and is memory all that is left me of such a parent ? Is the dumb dust, beneatii this unlettered stone — all ! — all ! that I can now call mothei ? Has she no monument but the tears of her only survi\ iug child ;•" *' A' about his mother," muttered A\'illie, " who has been dead for four years, and no a word aboot ])uir Helen ! As sure as I'm a living man this is beyont my comprehension — 1 diuua thiidi he can be allicgUlicr there !" Henry turned towards him and said, " I have much to ask, my dear friend, but my heart is so filled with griefs and forebodings already, that the words I would utter tremble on my tongue; but wliat of my Helen — tell me, what of her ?" '■ Slie — she's — weel, " gasped Willie, bewildered ; " that is^I — I hope — I trust — that — oh, losh, IMr Blackett, I dinna ken whar 1 am, nor what I am saying, for my brain is as daized as a body's that is driven owre wi' a drift, and row'ed am.ang the snaw ! Has there been onybody buried here lately ?" " Mr Galloway ! — Jfr Galloway !" exclaimed Henry, half-choked with agitation, and wringing his hand in his, while the perspiration burst upon his brow — " in the name of wretchedness — what — what do you mean .''" *' Oh, dinna speak to me !" said Willie, waving his hand ; ' ask that auld man." " Jonathan?" exclaimed Henry. " I di suppose it ."^ Has Khe left Primrose Hall ? — or, has our marriage Tell me all vou know, for I wist not what I would ask." N\'illie then related to him what the reader already Knows — namely, that she had left Dumfrie'jshirej aild was I'ippnRpd fo have gone to his fathfr'.s. asked old Jonathan, in a " Blessings on the day that these eyes helield the dear lady, then," exclaimed old Jonathan ; " for I could vow that she is under my roof now " " Under //()«/• roof!" cried Henry. " Was ye doited, auld man, that ye didua tell me that before ?" said Willie. " I knew no more of my young master's marriage, un- til just now, than these gravestones do," said Jonathan ; " the dear lady «ho is witii us tnld nothing to me. Only my wife told me that she knew she loved our young master." " I5ut why is she lodging with you, Jonathan ? I have learned that my father is abroad, and is it tliat he is soon expected home ?" " A fever caused her to be an inmate of mv poor roof," answered Jonathan, " after she had been rudely driven from the gate as a common beggar. But I am no longer tliy falher's servant — and I wish, for thy sake, I couli, forget he was thy father ; for he has done that which might make the blessed bones beneath our feet start from their grave. And there is no one about the Priory now, but the creatures of the villain Xorton." Henry entreated that the old man would not speak harshly of his father, though he had so treated them ; and he briefly informed them, that, on flying from Scotland to escape his pursuers, even at his father's lodge, be again met one of the individuals who had hunted him as '' Blackett, the traitor," and who had attempted to seize him in the hour of his marriage — and that even there the cry was again raised against him ; and a band, thirsting for his blood-money, joined in the pursuit. He had fled to the churchyard, and found concealment in tlie family vault, where he had remained until they then discovered him, as, in the early morning, he had ventured out. Willie counselled that there was now small vengeance to be apprehended from the persecution of the government ; and when Jonathan stated that Sir John had married the daughter of Norton and disinherited Henry by denying his marriage with his mother, Willie exclaimed — " 1 see it a', I^Ir Henry, just as clear as the A, B, C. This ra^al, ye ca' Norton, or your faither, (forgie me for saying sae,) has employed the villains wha hunted for yer life ; it has been mair them than the government that has been to blame. Therefore, my advice is, let us go and drive the thieves out o' the house by force." Henry, who was speechless with grief, horror, and disgust, agreed to the proposition of his friend, and they proceeded to the Priory by a shorter road than the lodge. Henry knocked loudly at the door, which was opened by a man-servant, wlio attempted to shut it in his face ; but, in a moment, the door was driven back upon its hinges, and the menial lay extended along the lobby ; and Henry with his sturdy ally and old Jonathan, rushed in. Alarmed by the sound, the other servants, male and female, hurried to the spot ; and epithets, too opprobrious to be written, were the mildest they applied to the young heir, as he demanded admission. " Then let us gie them club-law for it," cried Willie, " if they will have it ; and they shall have it to their hearts content, if I ance begin it." Armed with such weapons as they could seize at the moment, the servants menacingly gpposed their entrance ; but Henry, dashing through them, rushed towards the stairs where he was followed by four men-servants, two Jirmed with swords, and the others with kitchen utensils. But Willie, following at their heels, cried — " Come back !" and, bringing his cudgel round his head, with one tremendous swoop caused it to rattle across the unprotected nit of his transport — his outstretched arms fell motionless by his side — " O Helen, woman !" lie cried in TALES OF THE BORDERS. •271 uLt'iiiy, "do ye really say iiciifjnrtur P — lh:a isiia tlic word I wi-h to hear frae yi'. Ve iii'ver ca'c d im- licmi'actur before !" 'I'lio few words spoken liy tlio old woman liad callea up his buried bo]H's , but tlic word bcnifador liad again ivliehned him in despair. " Oil !" ho continued, dasliinp away tlic tears from his eyes, " my jitNir mind is llniij; away upon a whirlwind, and my brain is the sport o' every sliadou- ! () Helen ! I thought ve had forgotten me !" " ForiTotten you, mv kind dear friend !" said she; "I have not, I will not, I cannot fori^et you ; and wherefore would you forget tliat I can only remember you as a friend ?" " Poor, miserable, and deluded being that I am," .added he ; " 1 expected, from « hat the mistress o' this liouse told mc, that 1 Wduldiia be welcomed by the cuuldrife names flic lilt or hciiifdclur. Uo ye mind since ye used to call me Tliimms '^" •' Mr llowison," answered she, "I know this visit has been made in kindness — let me believe in parental anxiety. Vou have not now to learn that I am a wife, and voii can have beard nothing here to lead you to think other- wise. I will not pretend to misunderstand vour language. But by wliat name can I call vou save that of friend } — it was the first and the only cue by " liich I liuve ever kiuiwn you." " No, Helen," cried he, wringing her hand ; " there was a time when ye oidy said Thomas! and the .sound o' that ae ws ! I didna think onybody would hae said that to me ! l)id you really say criiniiial? But, oh ! as matters stand, if ye'd only alloo me to say anitlier word or twa anent the subject, and if ye wadna just crush me as a moth, and tak pleasure in my agonies — or hae me to perish wi' the sunless desolation o my ain breast — ye'll allow mc to say them. They relate to my last consolation — tlie last tie that links me and the world together !" ■• Speak," said Helen ; ' let not me be the cause of misery I can have power to prevent." " Oh, then !" rejjlied he, " be not angry at what I'm going to say ; and mind, that, on your answer depends the future happiness or misery o' a fellow being. Yes, Helen ! upon your word depends life and hope — madness and misery 1 say life and hope — for, if ye destroy the one, the otliei winna baud lang oot ; and I say madness — for, oh ! if ye had been a witness o' the wild and the melancholy days and nights that I liae passed since I learned that ye had left me, and felt my heart burning and beat- ing, and my brain loup, louping for ever, like a liv- ing substance, and shooting and stinging through my head, like stings o' fire, till I neither kenned whar I was, nor what I did ; but stood still, or rushed out ill agony, and .■■creamed to the wind, or gripped at the echo o' my voice ! — I say, if ye had seen this, ye wadna think it strange that I m.tde use o' the word's. And now, as ye have heard nothing from from Henry Bhickett, fiom the night that the ceremony o' marriage was performed — and if ye should hear nothing o' him for seven years to come, ye >\ill then, ye ken. be at liberty — and will ye si.y that I may hope, then.'' O Helen, woman ! say but tiie word, and I'll wait the seven years, as Jaco!) did for Rachel, and count them but a day if my Helen will bless me wi' a smile o' hope !" As he thus spoke, Mrs Holditch bustled into the room, exclaiming — " O sweet lady, heie be one coming thee knows — .see ! dear ai'ain young sec ; there be my husband, and our own master Henry, rome to make us hajn'y 272 TALES OF THE BORDERS. " Mv Henry !" exokimed Ilejen, springing fowarik the joor — " where — oli, ivliere ?" " Here, mv beloved ! here !" repl;sJ Henry, meeting her on the threshold. Poor Laird Hcwison stood duiiih, his mouth open, his eves extended, staring on vacancy. He beheld the ob- ject of his delirious love sink into her husljand's ar ns, and saw no more. He clasped liis hands together, a.id, ■-vith a deep groan, reeled against the wall. Henry and Helen, in the ecstasy of meeting each other, were uncon- scious of all aroui.a, and Willie Galloway was the first to observe his counfyman. " Preserve us ! you here, too, ]\Ir Ilowison !" said he. But the features of the laird remained rivetted in agony, and betrayed no symptom of recognition. The mention of the laird's name by Willie, arrested the attention of Henry, and approaching him, lie said — " Sir, to you I ought to oR'iT an apology." The unhajipy man wildly grasped tlie hand of Henry, and seizing also Helen's, he exclaimed—'- It is a' oure now ! The cliain is forged, and tl;e iron is round my soul. But I bless you baith. Tal< her ! tak her ! — and hear me, Henry Blackett — as ye would escape wrath and judgment, be kind to her as the westlin' winds and the morning de.vs to the leaves o' spring. Let it be your part to clothe her countenance wi' smiles and her bosom wi' joy ! Fareweel, Helen ! — look up ! — let me, for the last" time, look upon your face, and I will carry that look upon my memory to the grave I" She gazed upon him wildly, crying — " Stay ! — stay ! — you must not leave us !" " Now ! — now, it is past !" he cried ; " it was a sair struggle, but reason mastered it ! Fareweel, Helen ! — fareweel !" Thus saying, he rushed out of the house, and Willie Galloway followed him ; but, although fleet of foot, he was compelled to give up the pursuit. A few minutes after the abrupt and wild departure of the laird, and before Helen had recovered from the shock, the ruHians, uho, at the instigation of Norton, had hunted after Henry to deliver him up to the government, and from wnom he had already twice escaped, rushed into the room, exclaiming — " Secure the traitor !" Henry sprang back to defend himself, and Willie Gal- loway, who had returned, threw himself into a pugilistic attitude. But Helen, stepping between her husband and liis pursuers, drew a paper from her bosom, and placing it in his hands, said — " iMy Henry is free ! he is pardoned ! the king hath signed it ! — laugli at the bloodhounds !" And, as sh". spoke, she sank upon his breast. He opened the paper; it was his pardon under the royal signature ani the royal seal! "My cwn ! — my wife! — my wife!" cried Henry, pressing her to his heart, and weeping on her neck. " That crowns a'," exclaimed AVillie Galloway ; " O Helen ! — what a lassie ye are !" The ruffians slunk from the room, in confusion, and Willie informed them that the sooner they were out of sight it ivould be the better for them. Helen, on leaving Scotland, had proceeded to London, where, through the interest of a frieml of Laird llowison's, she gained access to the Duke of Cumberland, and throwing herself at his feet, had, through him, obtained her husband's pardon, and that pardon she had carried next her bosom to his father's house, hojiing to find 'lim I here. Having divided this tale into chaiiters, we now come to the CONCLUSION. Henry being now pardoned, Willie Galloway ad\'ised that he sliould take his wife to his father's house, and re- main there, adding — " Jlind ye, Maister Henry, that pos- session is nine points o' law — and if ye be in want o' the matter o' five hundred pounds for present use, or for mair to prove your birthright at law, I am the man that will advance it, and that will leave no stone unturned till I see you righted." Willie's suggestion was acted upon ; and Ilenrv and Helen took up their abode in the Priorv, where thev had been but a few weeks, when he obtained information that , his father had fallen in a duel, and that his adversary was none other than Squire Norton, the father of his then I wife ; but with his dying breath, he declared, in the pre- j sence of his seconds, and invoked them to record it, that] his injured son Henry was his only and lawful heir. "That," exclaimed Norton, with a savage laugh over J his dying antagonist, "it will cost him some trouble Ko] prove !" The murderer, in the name of a child which his daughtirj had borne to Sir John, had the hardihood to enter lega proceedings to obtain the estate. Henry applied to the parish of Glencleugh for the ri. gister of his mother's marriage ; but no such record w;:s ] found. Old Dugald Jlackay had a dreamy recollection ; of such a marriage taking place ; but he said — " It pe j very strange that it isna in te pook ; hur canna swear to it." JMany thought that the dav would be given against i IIenr\ , and pitied him; but before judgment was pro- nounced in the case, young Norton was founr" guilty of forgery, and condemned to undergo the l.-ist severity of j tliL' law. Previous to his ignominious diatli, in the presence j of witnesses, he confessed tl\e injury he had done to Henry by tearing the leaves from the parish register, and directed wlierethev might be found. They were found — old Norton fled from the country, and Henry obtained undisputed pos- session of the estate ; but on his father's widow and child j he settled a competency. Laird Howison's sorrow moderated as liis years increased ; I and when Henry and Helen had children, and wlien [ they had grown up to run about, he requested that thev [ should be sent to him every year, to pull the primroses j around Primrose Hall ; and they were sent. One of them,] a girl, the image of her mother, he often wept over,! and said, he hoped to live to love her, as he had loved her] mother. Willie Galloway ofien visited his friends iuj Clieshire, and remained "canny Willie" *■" the end of th chap*""- WILSON'S TALES OF THE BORDERS. LEAVES FEIOM TlIK LIFE OF ALEXANDER HAMILTOX. EvKKY roailor li;is licanl of tlio infamous si)CcuIation wliicli is atill known by tlio name of tlio ^ontli Soa liubblo. It pHxlucoil a mania in llio merraiitiio worKl, and bionglit ruin and misoi-y to tlio lieartlis of tlionsands. Many who laid their hearivc clerk of tiio court rose, and, lioldiiij,' tlio iiKlictiiiont, said, ' Aluxaiulur ilamiltoii, you arc (.-liar^'cd with coniuiittiiif,' an miprovokod and outra;;ious assault, witli intent to murder, upon tlio person of tlio llcjnourablo Edward Stalloid, in llydo I'ark. Do you jiload f,'uilty or not guilty ?" " Xot guilty," said tlio jirisonor, firmly. 'I'lie counsel for tlio prosecution then rose — "Gentlemen of tho jury," saiil lie, " I confess I am at a loss to (iiul words to express tlio deadliness of purpose, and tlio ilespe- rato cliaraeter of the assault with which tho prisoner is charged. A deed more reckless, nioro atrocious and criminal ill its character, never was attempted. Its aim was blood ! — murder at noonday — in tho Park, and in tho midst of liun- droils. After this, where is safety to ho found ? Were the prisoner to go unpunished, madmen might ho sot at large, and assassins crowd our streets with impunity. Tho fero- city of a savage of tho woods, when lirod by victory and nitlamed with tho war-whoop, is tame, compared with the brutal vi(deuco which was manifested by the prisoner. With a disregard of all personal conse(|uences, his object was mtirdcr ! I repeat tho word — murder was his object; and ho has failed in acconii>lishing it only through tho prompt assistance of the medical gentleman to whoso care my client was intrusted. I do not say this from a desiro to inllueneo you against tho prisoner; but from a regard for truth, for our common safety, and tho public welfare. I shall prove to you that this is not a siditary case of the pri- ••)ncr's outrage; but that, on the same day on which he at- tcinptoil the life of the prosecutor, ho was guilty of a scarcely less daring assault upim an honourable member of the House of Commons — that on former occasions ho has forced his way into the house of iMr JStaHbrd, and endeavoured to ex- tort money by violence. In short, tho evidence is such as will leave no doubt upon your mind of the prisoner's guilt and desperate character, and assures me of what will be your verdict. What jilea he will set up, I know not ; but he who could attempt the life of a fellow-man in broad day, will not be nico as to the cxpoilients to which ho re- sorts. Should temporary insanity bo urged, I need not tell you that you will consiiler whether it be lawful for a person subject to such fits of lunacy to bo left to go at large amongst mankiu.l; and that, if such a plea bo oll'ered, you will duly examine that it bo established." During this harangue, not a muscle of Alexander's face moved ; but he stood with his eyes bent upon the speaker, manifesting throughout the same' calm and proud look of conscious innocence. Isabella exhibited almost tho same calmness as her husband ; but at times the glow of indigna- tion and impatience Hushed her cheek, and she threw upon llic accuser a glance of scorn. I will not enter into the evidence. Several of the witnesses n-oro gentlemen of rank, who, having been spectators of tho assault in the Park, gave an unprejudiced statement of what they had seen, and their testimony tended to prepare the minds of tho court to give credence to the evidence of less respectable witnesses ; for they confirmed the desperate character of the att.ack and the injury received by the pro- secutor. A herd of others were suborned to aggravate the charges, and to contravert whatever evidence tho prisoner might bring forward. The cose for Uio prosecution closed, and every hope of acquittal was destroyed. Still he main- tained the same firmness ; and, for a few seconds, not a sound was heard throughout tho court. To the ear of Isabella, the breathless silenco was as sudden thumler ; hitherto, while lis- icning to the accumulated perjuries with which her husband's ruin was sought, notwithstanronounced against you, speak now." "My Loril," said Alexander, " I crave your indulgence. Trusting to innocence, I have employed no couns(d, and I hoped to nec TALES OF THE BORDERS THE WIFE OR THE WUDDY. There was a criminal in a cart Ajjuing to be haiigod — Ri'prievc to him was grantud ; The crowd and cart did stdnd. To see if he woxild marry a wife, Or, otlier\nse, choose to die ! ** Oh, why should 1 tortnenC my life ?*' The victim did reply ; •'Tlie bariinin's had in every part — But a wife*s the worst ! — diive on the cart.' Honest Sir John FalstafFttilketli of " minions of tlic moon ;" and, trutli to tell, two or three liiindred years ago, nowliere was such an order of knigiithood more prevalent than upon tlie Borders. Not only did the Scottish and English Bor- derers make their forays across the Tweed and the ideal line, liut rival chieftains, though of the same nation, considered themselves at liberty to make inroads upon the property of each other. The laws of mcmn and tiium they were unable to comprehend. Theirs was the strong man's world, and with them might was riglit. But to proceed with our story. About the beginning of the seventeenth century, one of the boldest knights upon the Borders was William Scott, the young laird of Harden. Ilis favourite residence was Oak- wood Tower, a place of great strength, situated on the banks of the Ettrick. Tlie motto of his family was " Reparabil coniiia Pliccbc," which being interpreted by his countrymen, in thoir vernacular idiom, ran thus — " We'll hae moonlight again." Now, the young laird was one who considered it his chief honour to give eti'ect to both the spirit and the letter of his family motto. Permitting us again to refer to honest Falstaff, it implied that they were " gentlemen of the night; " and he was not one who would loll upon his pillow when his "avocation" called him to the foray. It was drawing towards midnight, in the month of Octo- ber, when the leaves in the forest had become brown and yellow, and h ith a hard sound rustled upon each other, that young Scott called together his retainers, and aildressing them, said — " Look ye, friends, is it not a crying sin and a national shame to see things going aglee as they are doing.'' There seems hardly such a thing as manhood left upon the Borders. A bit scratch with a pen upon parchment is be- coming of more effect than a stroke with the sword. A bairn now stands as good a chance to hold and to have, as nn aimed man that has a hand to take and to defend. Such a state o' things was only made for those who are owre lazy to ride by night, and owre cowardly to fight. Never shall it be said that I, William Scott, of Harden, was one who either submitted or conformed to it. Give me tlie good, old, manly law, that ' they shall keep who can,' and wi' my honest sword will I maintain my right auainst every enemy. Now, iJiere is our natural and law I'ul adversary, auld Sir Gideon 36. Vol. J Jluiray o' Elibank, carries his head as liigli as though he were first cousin to a king, or the sole lord o' Eltrick Forest Alore than once has he slighted me in a way which it wasna for a Scott to bear; and weel do I ken that he has the will, and wants but the power, to harry us o' house an' ha'. But. by my troth, he shall pay a dear reckoning for a' the insults he has offered to the Scotts o" Harden. Now, every Murray among them has a weel-stocked mailing, and their kine .are weel-favoured ; to-night the moon is laughing cannily through the clouds : — therefore, what say ye, neighbours — will ye ride wi' me to Elibank .'' and, before morning, every man o' them shall have a toom byre." " Hurra !" shouted they, " for the young laird ! He is a true Scott from head to heel ! Ride on, and we will follow ye! Hurra I — the moon glents owre the hill, to guide us to the spoils o' Elibank 1 To-night we shall bring langsyne back again." There were twenty of them, stout and bold men, mounted upon light and active horses — some armed with firelocks, and others with Jeddart staffs ; while, in addition to such wea- pons, every man had a good sword by his side. At their head was the fearless young laird ; and, at a brisk pace, they set off towards Elibank. Mothers and maidens ran to their cottage doors, and looked after them with foreboding hearts when they rode along ; for it was a saying amongst them, that, " when young \Villie Scott o' Harden set his foot in the stirrup at night, there were to be swords drawn before morning." They knew, also, the feud between him and the house of Elibank, and as well did they know that the ilurrays were a resolute and a sturdy race. Morn had not dawned when they arrived at the scene where their booty lay. Not a Murray was abroad ; and to the extreme they carried the threat of the young laird into execution, of making " toom byres." By scores and by hun- dreds, they collected together, into one immense herd, horned cattle and sheep, and they drove them before them through the Forest towards Oakwood Tower. The laird, in order to repel any rescue that might be attempted, brought up the rear, and, in the joy of his heart, he sang, and, at times, cried aloud, " There will be dry breakfasts in Elibank be- fore the sun gets oot, but a merry meal at Oakwood afore he gangs doun. An entire bullock shall be roasted, and wives and bairns shall eat o" it." " I humbly beg your pardon, Maister William," s.aid an old retainer, named Simon Scott, and who traced a distant relationship to the family ; " I respectfully ask your pardon ; but I have been in your faither's family for forty years, and never was backward in the hoor o' danger, or in a ploy like this ; but ye will just alloo me to observe, sir, that wilfu' waste maks wofu' want, and I see nae occasion whatever for roasting a bullock. It would be as bad as cor neebors on the ither side o' the Tweed, wha are roast, roastin or bakin in the oven, every day o' tlio week, and »uik;n a 282 TALES OF THE BOEDERS stane u-elgLt o' meat no gang sae far as twa or three pounfls wud hae dune. Therefore, sir, if ye will tak ray advice, if we are to hae a feast, there will be nae roasting in the way. There was a fine sharp frost the other nicht, and I observed the rime lying upon the kail ; so that baith greens and savoys will be as tender as a weel-boiled three-month-auld cliicken ; and I say, therefore, let the beef be boiled, and let them hae ladle-fu's o' kail, and ye will find, sir, that, instead o' a hail bullock, even if ye intend to feast auld and voun"-, mal; and female, upon the lands o' Oakwood, a quarter o' a bullock will be amply sufficient, and the rest can be sauted doun for winter's provisions. Ye ken, sir, that the Murrays winna let us lichtly slip for this nicht's wark ; and it is aye safest, as the saying is, to lay by for a sair fit." " Well argued, good Simon," said the young laird ; " but your economy is ill-timed. Afier a night's work, such as this, there is surely some licence for gilravishing. I say it — and who dare contradict me? — to-night, there is not one oelonging to the house of Harden, be they old or young, who shall not cat of roast meat, and drink of the best." " Weel, sir," replied Simon, " wi' reverence be it spoken, but I would beg to say that ye are wrang. Folk that ance get a liking for dainties tak ill wi' plainer fare again ; and, moreover, sir, in a' my experience, I never kenned dainty bits and hardihood to go hand in liand ; but. on the contrary, luxuries mak men etfeminate, and discontented into the bargain." The altercation between the old retainer and his young master ran farther ; but it was suddenly interruptea by the deep-mouthed baying of a sleuth-hound ; and its threaten- ing howls were followed by a loud cry, as if from fifty voices, of — " To-n'ght, for Sir Gideon and the house ot Elibank !" But here we pause to say that Sir Gideon IMurray of Elibank was a man whose name was a sound of terror to ail who were his enemies. Asa foe, he was fierce, resolute, unforgiving. He had never been known to turn his back upon a foe, or forgive an injury. He knew the meaning of justice in its severest sense, but not of compassion ; lie was a stranger to the attribute of mercy, and the life of the man who had injured him, he regarded as little as the life of the worm which he might tread beneath his heel upon his path. lie was a man of middle age ; and had three daughters, none of whom were what the ivorld calls beautiful ; but, on the contrary, they were what even the dependants upon his estates described as " very ordinary-looking youn, women." Such was Sir Gideon Jlurray of Elibank ; and, although the young laird of Harden conceived that he had come upon liim as " a thief in the night" — and some of my readers, from the transaction recorded, may be somewhat apt to take the scriptural quotation in a literal sense — yet I would say, as old Satchel sings of the Borderers of those days, they were men^ '* Somewhat unruly, and vny ill to tame. I would have none think that 1 call them thieves ; For, if I did, it would be arrant lies.'* But, stealthily as the young Master of Harden had made his preparations for the foray, old Sir Gideon had got timely notice of it ; and hence it was that not a Murray seemed astir when they took the cattle from the byres, and drove them towards Oakwood. But, through the moonlight, there were eyes beheld every step they took — their every movement was watched and traced ; and, amongst those who watched, was the stern old knight, with fifty followers at his back. " Quiet ! quiet !" he again and again, in deep murmurs, uttered to his dependants, throwing back his hand, and, speaking in a deep and earnest whisper, that awed even the slow but ferocious sleuth-hound that accompanied them, and caused it to crouch back to his feet In a yet deeper whisper, he added, encouragingly — " Patience, ray merry men ! — bide yom time^ye shall hae work before long gc When, therefore the young laird and his followers began to disperse in the thickest of the forest, as they drove the cattle before them. Sir Gideon suddenly exclaimed — " Now for the onset !" And, at the sound of his voice, the s'.euth- hound howled loud and savagtly. " We are followed! — halt! halt! — to arms! to arms !" cried the heir of Harden. Three or four were left in charge of the now somewhat scattered herd of cattle, and to drive tliem to a distance; while the rest of the party spurred back their horses as rapidly as the tangled pass in the forest would permit, to the spot from whence the voice of their young leader pro- ceeded. They arrived speedily, but they arrived too late. In a moment, and with no signal save the baying of the hound, old Sir Gideon and his armed company had bursi upon young Scott and old Simon, and ere the former could cry for assistance, they had surrounded tliem. " Willie Scott ! ye rash laddie :" cried Sir Gideon — " yield quietly, or a thief's death shall ye die ; and in the very forest through which ye have this night driven my cattle, the corbies and you shall become acquaint — or, at least, if ye see not them, they shall see you and feel you too." " Brag on, ye auld greybeard," exclaimed the youtli ; " but while a Scott o' Harden has a finger to wag, no powL-r on earth shall make his tongue say, ' I am conquered !' So come on ! — do your best — do your worst — here is tJie hand and the sword to meet ye ! — and were ye ten to one, ye shall find that Willie Scott isna the lad to turn his back, though ten full-grown Murrays stand before his face." " By my sooth, then, callant," cried the old knight, " and it was small mercy, after what ye hae done, that I intended to show ye ; and after what ye hae said, it shall be less that I will grant ye ! Sae come on lads and now to humble the Hardens !" " Arm ! every Scott to arms !" again shouted the young laird ; " and now. Sir Gideon, if ye will measure weapons, and leave your jvccl-faured daugliters as a legacy to the world, be it sae ! But there are lads among your clan o' whom they would hae been glad, and who, belike in /)(/_'/, might hae offeretj them their hands, but ^>lio will this night mak a bride o' the green sward ! Sae come on, Sir Gideon, and on you and yours be the consequence !" " Before sunrise," returned Sir Gideon, " and the Avin- some laird o' Harden shall boast less vauntingly, and rue that he had broke his jeers upon an auld man. Touch me, sir, but not my bairns." The conflict began, and on each side the strife ivas bloody and desperate. Bold men grasped each other by the throat and they held their swords to each other's breasts, scoAvlinj^ one upon another with the ferocity of contending tigers, ere each gave the deadly plunge which was to hurl both into eternity. The report of fire-arms, the clash of swords, the clang of shields, with the neiiihinect « 284 TALES OF THE BORDERS. tliat. I douot ye will see the Ettn'ck running through the ' dowie dells o' Yarrow,' before ye hear tell o' an offer being made to me." " Hoot, hoot ! — dinna say sae, bairn,' added her mother ; " there is nae saying what may betide ye yet. Ye think ye winna be married before ye are six and twenty ; but, truly, my dear, there has mony a mair unlikely ship come to land. Now, what wud ye think o' the young laird o' Harden ?" " Mother ! mother !" said Agnes, " wherefore do ye mock me .'' I never saw ye do that before. My faither has ta'en William Scott a prisoner; and, from what I hae neard, he will hang him in the morning. Ye ken what a man my faither is — when he says a thing he will do it ; and how can you jest about the young man, when his very ex- istence is reduced to a matter o' minutes and moments. Though, rather than my faither should tak his life, if I could save him, he should take mine." " Weel said, my bairn," replied the old woman ; " but dinni ye be put about concerning what will never come to pass. I doubtna that, before rooming, ye will find young Scott o' Harden at your feet, and begging o' you to save his life, by giving him your hand and troth, and becoming his wife : and then, ye ken, your faither couldna, for shame, hang or do ony harm to his ain son-in-law." " O mother ! mother !" replied Agnes, " it will never be in my power to save him ; for what ye hae said he will never think o' ; and even if I were his wife, I question if my faither would pardon him, though I should beg it upon my knees." " Oh, your faither's no sae ill as that, Meggie, my doo," said the old lady. " i\Iark my words — if Willie Scott consent to marry you, ye wMl henceforth find him and your faither hand and glove." While this conversation between Lady Murray and her daughter took place, Sir Gideon entered the room where his prisoners were confined, and, addressing the young laird, said — " Now, ye rank marauder, though death is the very least that ye deserve or can expect from my hands, yet I will gie ye a chance for your life, and ye shall choose between a wife and the wuddy. To-morrow morning, ye shall either marry my daughter, Jleg, or swing from the branch o' the nearest tree, and the bauldest Scott upon the Borders shanna tak ye down, until ye drop a\i'ay, bone by bone, a fleshless skeleton." " Good save us ! most honourable and good Sir Gideon !" suddenly interrupted Simon, in a tone which bespoke his horror ; " but ye certainly dinna intend to make an anatomy o' me too ; or surely, when my honoured maister marries Miss Jlurray, (as I hope and trust he will,) ye will alloo me to dance at their wedding, instead o' dancing in the air, and keeping time to the music o' the soughing wind. And, O maister ! for my sake, for your ain sake, and especially out o regard to my sma' and helpless family, consent to marry the lassie, though she isna extraordinar' weel-faured ; for I am sure that, rather than die a dog's death, swinging from a tree, I would marry twenty wives, though they were a' as auld as the hills, as ugly as a starless midnicht, and had tongues like trumpets." " Peace, Simon !" cried the young laird, impatiently ; ' if ye hae turned coward, keep the sound o' ver fears .vithin yer ain teeth. And ye. Sir Gideon," added he, turning towards the old knight, " in your amazing mercy and generosity, would spare my life, upon condition that 1 should marry your honnij daughter, Meg. Look ye, sir — 1 am Scott o' Harden, and ye are Murray o' Elibank ; there is no love lost between us ; chance has placed my life in your hands — take it, for I wouldna marry your daughter though ye should gie me life, and a' the lands o' Elibank into thn bargain. I fear as little to meet death as I do to throw in your teeth lliat, had .ye fallen into ui" hands, 1 || would have hung ye «i' as little ceremony as 1 Avould brin^ a whip across the back o' a disobedient hound. Therefore, j3 are welcome to do the same by me. Ye have taken what ye thought to be a sure mode o' getting a husband for ane o' your Tvinsome daughters ; but, in the present in- stance, it has proved a wrong one, auld man. Do your worst, and there will be Scotts enow left to revenge the death o' the laird o' Harden." " There, (hen, is my thumb, young braggart," exclaimed Sir Gideon, " that I winna hinder ve in your choice ; for to-morrow ye shall be exalted as Haman was ; and let those revenge your death who dare." " Blaister I — dear maister !" cried Simon, Avringing his hands, " will ye sacrifice me also, and break the hearts o' my puir wife and family ! O sir ! accept o' Sir Gideon's proposal, and marry his dochter." " Silence ! ye milk-livered slave !" cried the young laird " Do ye pretend to bear the name o' Scott, and yet tremble like an ash leaf at the thought o' death !" " Ye will excuse me, sir," retorted Simon, " but I tremble at no such thing ; only, as I have already remarked, I have no particular ambition for being honoured wi' the exalta- tion o' the halter ; and, moreover, I see no cause why a man should die unnecessarily, or where death can be avoid- ed. Sir Gideon," added he, " humble prisoner as I at this moment am, and in your power, I leave it to you if ever ye saw onything in my conduct in the field o' battle, (and ye have seen me there,) that could justify ony ane in calling me either milk-livered or a coward } But, sir, I consider it would be altogether unjustifiable to deprive ane o' life, which is always precious, merely because my maister is stub- born, and winna marry your daughter. But, oh, sir, I am not a very auld man yet, and if ye will set me at liberty, though 1 am now a married man, in the event o' my ever becoming a widower, I gie ye my solemn promise that I will marry ony o' your dochters that ye please '" " Audacious idiot !" exclaimed the old knight, raising hig hand and striking poor Simon to the ground. " Sir Gideon Murray !" cried the young laird fiercely " are ye such a base knave as to strike a fettered prisoner ■ .Shame fa' ye, man! where is the pride o' the Jlurrays now.>" Sir Gideon evidently felt the rebuke, and withdrawing from the apartment, said, as he departed — " Remember that when the sun-dial shall to-morrow note the hour of twelve, so surely shall ye 'be brought forth — and a wife shall be your lot, or the wuddy your doom." " Leave me !" cried the youth impatiently, " and the gallows be it — my choice is made. Till my li^st hour trouble me not again." " Sir ! sir !" cried Simon, '• I beg, I pray that ye will alter your determination. There is surely naething so awful in the idea o' marriage, even though your wife should have a face not particularly weel-f.ivoured. Ye dinna ken, sir, but that the young woman's looks are her worst fault ; and indeed, I hae heard her spoken o' as a lassie o' great sense and discretion, and as having an excellent temper ; and, oh, .sir, if ye kenned as weel what it is to be married as I do ye would think that a good temper was a recommendation | far before beauty." " Hold thy fool's tongue, Simon," cried the laird ; < " would ye disgrace the family wi' which ye make it your boast to be connected, when in the power and presence o' its enemies.'' Do as ye see me do — die and defy them." It was drawing towards midnight, when the prison-door j was opened, and the sentinel who stood wat(di over it ad- mitted a female dressed as a domestic. '• What want ye, or whom seek ye, maiden?" inquired! the laird. " I come," answered she mildly, " to speak wi' the lairc o' Harden, and to ask if he has any dying commands that jioor lassie could fulfil for him." TALES OF THE BORDERS. 285 " Dying commaiuls !" respninlcd Simon; " nli, are tlioso no awlal words ! — and (!aa ye still be foulliardy cnoiigli (o say ye winna many ?" " Who sentyo, maiden ? — or who are ye?" continued the laird. " A despised 'issie, sir," answered she, " and an atten- dant upon Sir Gideon's lady, in whom ye hae a true and steadfast fiicnd; fli:;;i>;h 1 doubt that, as ye liae refused poor Meg, her intercession will avail ye little." "And wheretbro has Luly iNIurray sent you here?" lie continued. " Just, sir, because she is a -nother, and has a mother's neart ; and, us ye hae a mother aivl sisters who will now be mourning for ye at ()akwoo(i she thought that, belike, ye would hae something to say thai ye 'vould wish to hae conimnnicated to them ; and, if it be sae, I am come toolfer to be your messenger." '•■fllaideu !" said he, with emotion, " speak not of my poor mother, or ymi will unman me, and I would wish to die as becomes my father's son." " That's right, liiiiny," whispered Simon; "speak to him about his mother again — talk about her sorrow, poor lady, and her tears, and distraction, and mourning — and 1 hae little doubt but we shall get liim to marry IMeg, or do oiiy- tliing else, ami I shall get back to my family, after a'." " What is it that ye whisper, Simon, in the maiden's car ?" inquired the laird, sternly. " Oh, naethiiig, sir— naething, I assure ye," answered Simon, falteringly ; " I was only saying that, if ye sent her OWCT to Oakwooil wi' a message to your poor, honoured, wretclied mother, that she wonlil inquire for my poor widow, Janet, and my bits o' bairns, and that she would tell them that nothing troubled me ujiou my death-bed no, no, not my death-bed, but 1 declare I am ashamed to think n't ! 1 was saying that I was simply telling Iier to inform my wife and bairns, that nothing distracted me in the hour o' death, but the thought o' being parted from ihem." AVithout noticing the evasive reply of his dependarit and fellow-prisoner, the laird, addressing the intruder, said — " Ye speak as a kind and considerate lassie. I would like to send a scrape o' a pen to my poor mother, and, if ye will be its bearer, she Mill reward ye." " And, belike," she replied, " ye would like to hear if the good lady has an answer back, or to learn how she bore the tidings o' your unhappy fate." " Before you could return," said he, " the time appointed hy my adversary for my execution will be past, and I shall feel for my mother's sorrows with the sympathy of a disem- bodied spirit." " But," added she, ' if ye would like to hear from your poor mother, or, belike, to see her — for there may be fiimily matters that ye would wish to have arranged — I think, through the influence of my lady. Sir Gideon could be prevailed upon to grant ye a respite for three or four days ; and, as he isna a man that keeps his passion long, perhaps, by that time, he may be disposed to save your life upon terms that would be more acceptable." ''No, maiden," he replied ; "he is my enemy ; and from bim I wish no terms — no clemency. Let him fulfil his pur- pose — I will die ; but my death shall be revenged ; and tell mv mother that it was my latest injunction that she should command every follower of our bouse to avenge her son's death, while there is a Murray left in all Scotland to repent the deed o" the knight o' Elibank." " Oh, sweet young ma'am, or mistress !" cried Simon ; " bear the lady no such message ; but rather, as ye hae said, try if it be possible to got your own good lady to persuade Sir Gideon to spare our lives for a few days; and, as ye say, the edge o' the auld knight's revenge may be blunted by that time, or, perhaps, mv woilhy young mai.^t'jr may be brought to see things in a clearer light, and, perhaps, to marry Miss JMargaret, by which means our lives inny be spared. For it is certainly the height o' madness in bim to sacrlllco my life .and his own, rather than marry her before he has seen her." " Simon," interrujiled the laird, " the maiilcn lias spoken kindly ; let licr endeavour to procure a resjiite — a rejirievc lor you. In your death my enemy cm have no gratilica tion ; but for me — leave me to myself." "O sir," replied Simon, "ye wrong me — ye mistake my me.ining a'thegither. If ye ;ire to die, I will die also ; hut do ye no think it would be as valorous and mair rational, at least to s<'e and hear the young leddy, before ye determine to die rather than to marry her ?" " And hae ye," said the maiden, addressing the laird, " preferred the gallows to poor Meg, -without even seeing her?" "If I Iiacna seen her, I hae heard o' her," said he; "an<) by all accounts her countenance isna ane that oiiv man wouhl desire to see accomnanyiii'; him throuiih the world like a shadow at his oxter. "Belike," said the maiden, "she has been represented to you worse than she looks like — if ye saw her, ye might change your opinion ; and, perhaps, after a', that she isna bonny is a' that any one can say against her." " Wheesht, lassie !" said he; " I winna be forced to ony- thing. A Scott may be led, hut he winna drive. I have nae wish to see the face o' your young mistress, for I winna hae her. But you speak as one that has a feeling lieart, and before I trust ye wl' my last letter to my poor mother, I should like to have a glance at your face, and hy your coun- tenance I shall judge whether or not it will be safe to trust " I doubt, sir," replied she, throwing back the hood that covered her head, " ye will see as little in my features as ye expect to find in my young mistress's, to recommend me ; but, sir, ye ought to remember that jewels are often en- crusted in coarser metals, and ye will often find a delicious kernel within an unsightly shell." " Ye speak sweetly, and as sensibly as sweet," said he, raising the flickering lamp, which burned before them upon a small table, and gazing upon her countenance ; " and I will now tell ye, lassie, that, if your features be not beauti- ful, there is honesty and kindliness written upon every line o' them ; and though ye are a dependant in the house o' my enemy, I will trust ye. Try if I can obtain writing mate- rials to address a few lines to my mother, and I will confide in you to deliver them." " Ye may confide in me," rejoined she, " and the wTiting materials which ye desire I liae brought wl' mo. Write, and not only shall your letter be faithfully delivered, but, as ye hae confided in me, I will venture to say that your life shall bo spared until ye receive her answer ; for I may say that what I request. Lady Murray will try to see performed. And if I can find any means in my power by which ye can escape, it shall not be lang that yc will remain a prisoner.'' "Thank ye ! — dou.ily thank ye I" cried Simon; "ye are a good and a kind creature ; and though my malster refuses to marry your mistregs, yet had I been single I would hae married you. But, oh, when ye go wi' the letter to his mother, my honoured lady, v.ill yc just go away down to a bit white house which lies by the river side, about a mile and a half aboon Selkirk, and tiicrc yc will find my poor wife and bairns — or rather I should say my unhappy widow and my orphans — and tell them — oh ! tell my wife — that I never kenned how dear she was to me till now, but that if slie marries again that my ghost will haunt lier, niglit and day; and tell also the liairns, that, above everything, 1 charge 'Jiem to he good to their mother." The youni: laird sat down, and, writing a letter to Lij 200 TALES OF THE BORDERS. mother, entrusted it to the hands ol the stranger girl. He raised her hand to his lips as she withdrew, and a tear trickled down his cheeks as he thanked her. It was early on the following morning that 5Icikle- mouthed Jleg as she was called, requested an interview with her father, which hcing granted, after respectfully ren dering obeisance before him, she said — " So, faitlier, I un- derstand that it is your pleasure that I shall this day become the wife o' young Scott o' Harden. I think, sir, that it is due to the daughter o' a Murrayo' Elibank, that she should be courted befor" 'he gies her hand. The young man has never seen me ; he kens naething concerning me ; an' never will j'er dochter disgrace ye by gieing her hand to a man who only accepted it to save his neck from a hempen cord, j Faither, if it be your command that I am to marry him, I tvill an' must marry him; but, before I just make a venture upon him for better for worse, an' for life, I wud like to bae some sraa' acquaintance wi' him, to see what sort o' lad he is, and what kind o' temper he has ; and, therefore, faither, I humbly crave that ye will put off the death or the marriage for a week at least, that I may hae an opportu- nity o' judging for mysel, how far it would he prudent or becoming in me to consent to be his wife." " Gie me your hand, Meg," cried the old knight ; " I didna think ye had as muckle spirit and gumption in ye as to say what ye hae said. But your request is useless ; for he has already, point blank, refused to hae ye; an' there is naething left for him, but, before sunset, to strike his heels against the bark o' the auld elm tree." " Say not that, faither," said she — " let me at least bae four days to become acquainted wi' him; and if in that time he doesna mak a request to you to marry me without ony dowry, then will I say that I look even waur than I get the name o' doing." " He shall have four days, Meg," cried the old knight ; " for your sake he will have them ; but if, at the end o' four days, he shall refuse to take ye, he shall hang before this window, and his poor half-crazed jGompanion shall bear him company." With this assurance, Agnes, or, as she was called, Meg, left her father, and bethought her of how she might save the prisoners and secure a husband. The mother of the laird sat in the midst of her daugh- ters, mourning for him, and looking from the window of the tower, as though, in every form that appeared in the dis- tance, she expected to see hiro, or at least to gather tidings regarding him ; when information was brought to her that ho was the prisoner of Murray of Elibank. Then," cried she, and wept, " the days o' my winsome Willie are numbered, and his death is determined on ; for often has Sir Gideon declared he would gie a' the lands o' Elibank for his head. My Willie is my only son, my first- bom, and ray heart's hope and treasure ; and, oh, if I lose him now, if I shall never again hear his kindly voice say ' niotlier !' nor stroke down his yellow hair — wi' him that has made me sonless I shall hae a day o' lang and fearfu' reckon- ing ; cauld shall be the hearth-stane in the house o' many a Alurray, and loud their lamentation," Her daughters wept with her for their brother's fate ; but they wist not how to comfort her ; and, while they sat mingling their tears together, it was announced to them that an humble maiden, bearing a message from the captive laird, desired to speak with her. " Shew her in ! — take me to her !" cried the mother, im- patiently. " Where is she .'' — what does she say — or what does my Willie say ?" And jthe maiden, who has been men- tioned as having visited the laird in his prison, was ushered into her presence. " Come to me, lassie — come and tell me a'," cried the old l.-idy; "what message does Willie Scott smfl to 'ms hciirl- broken mother ?" « He has sent you this bit packet, ma am," replied tht bearer ; " and i shall be right glad to take back to Mm whatever answer ye may hae to send." " And wha are ye, young woman," inquired the lady " that speaks sae kindly to a mother, an' taikes xn interest in the fate o' my Willie ?" " A despised lassie," was the reply ; "but anc that would risk her ain life to save either yours or his." " Bless you for the words !" replied Lr.dy Scott, as she broke the seal of her son's letter, and read : — " My mother, my honoured mother — Fate has delivered me into the power of IMurray of Elibank, the enemy of our house. He has doomed me to death, and I die to-morrow j but sit not down to mourn for me, and uselessly to wring the hands and tearthpi hnir; but rouse every Scott upon the Borders to nse up and be my avenger. If ye bewail the loss o' a son, let them spare o' the Murrays neither son nor daughter. Rouse ye and let a mother's vengeance nerve your arm! Poor Simon o' Yarrow-foot is to be my companion in death, and he whines to meet his fate with the weakness of a woman, and yearns a perpetual yearning for his wife and bairns. On that account I forgie him the want o' heart and determination which he manifests ; but see ye to them, and take care that they be provided for. As for me, I shall meet my doom wi' disdain for my enemy in my eyes and on my tongue. Even in death he shall feel that I despise him ; and a proof o' this I have given him already; for he has offered to save my life, providing I would marry his daughter, Meikle-mouthed Meg. But I have scorned his proposal." " Ye were right, Willie I ye were right, lad !" exclaimed his mother, while the letter shook in her hand ; but, sud- denly bursting into tears, she continued — " No, no! my bairn was WTong — very wrong. Life is precious, and at all times desirable ; and, for his poor mother's sake, be ought to have married the lassie, what'er she maybe like." And, turning to the bearer of the letter, she inquired — "And what like may the leddy be, the marrying o' whom would save my Willie's life?" " Ye hare nae doubt heard, my leddie," replied the stranger, " that she isna what the world considers to be a likely lass — though, take her as she is, and ye might find a hantle worse wives than poor Jleg would make; and, as to her features, I may say that she looks much the same as I do ; and, if she doesna appear better, she at least doesna look ony waur." " Then, if she be as ye say and look as ye say," con tinned the lady, " my poor headstrong Willie oujht to marry her. But, oh ! weel do I ken that in everything he is just his faither owtc again, and ye might as weel think o' moving the Eildon Hills as force him to onything". She perused the concluding part of her son's letter, in which he spoke enthusiastically of the kindness shewn liira by the fair messenger, and of the promise she had made to liberate him if possible. "And if she do," he added, '•what- ever be her parentage, on the day that I should be free, she should be my wife, though I have preferred death to the hand o' Sir Gideon's comely daughter." " Lassie," said the lady, weeping as she spoke, " my poor Willie talks a deal o' the kindness ye have shewn him in the hour o' his distress, and for that kindness his mother's heart thanks ye. But do you not think that it is possible that I could accompany ye to Elibank ; and, if ye can devise no means for him to escape, perhaps, if ye could get me ad- mitted into his presence, when he saw his poor distressed mother upon her knees before bim, his heart would saflen and he would marry Sir Gideon's daughter, ill-fcatuted though she may be." " My leddy," answered the stranger maiden, " it is little that I can promise, and less that I can do ; but, if ve desire to se7 yer son, I think I could .in?wer for accomplishing J TALES OF THE BOFiDERS. 2H7 ver request; an Uiougli ii;ie {^uiJ ir.ulu come oot o't, I could also say that I ^vuJ soo ye safe back af;aiii." Withiu an hour, Lady Scott, disguised as a peasant, and carrying a basket on her arm, set out for Elibauk, accom- panied by the fair stranger. Leaving them upon tlieir niclanclioly journey, we shall return to the young laird. From the windows of liis prison- \iouso, he beheld the sun rise wliich was to be the last on *'hich he was to look. lie heard the sentinels, who kept ivatcli over him, relieve each other ; he heard them pacing lo and fro before the grated door, and as the sun rose to- rards the south, proclaiming the approach of noon, tlic agi- *ition of Simon increased. He sat in a corner of the prison, md strove to pray ; and, as the footsteps of the sentinels quickened, he groaned in tlie bitterness of his spirit. At 'ength, the loud booming of the gong announced that the dial-plate upon the turret marked the hour of twelve. Simon clasped his hands together. " Jlaister ! maister !" lie cried, " our hour is come, an one word from yer lips could save us baith, an' ye winna speak it. The very hold- ing oot o' yer hand could do it, but ye are stubborn even unto death." " Simon," said the laird. '• I hae left it as an injunction upon my mother, that yer wife an' weans be ])rovided for — she will fulfil my request. Therefore, be ye content. Die like a man an' dinna disgrace both yourself an' rae." " O sir ! I winna disgrace, or in any manner dishonour jre," said Simon — " only I do not see the smallest necessity for us to die, and especially when both our lives could be saved by yer doing yerself a good turn." While he spoke, the sound of the sentinels' footsteps, pacing to and fro, ceased. The prison-door was opened ; Simon fell upon his knees — the laird looked towards the in- truder proudly. " Your lives are spared for another day," said a voice, " that the laird o' Harden may have time to reflect upon the proposal that has been made to him. But let him not hope that he will find mercy upon other terms ; or that, refusing them for another day, his life will be pro- longed." 'riie door was again closed, and the bolts were dra«Ti. The spirit of Sir Gideon was too proud and impatient, to spare the lives of his prisoners for four days, as he had pro- mised lo his daughter to do, and he now resolved that they should die upon the following day. The sun had again set, and the dim lamp shed around its fitful and shadowy light from the table of the prison-room, when the maiden, wlio had carried the letter to the laird's mother, again entered. " This is kind, very kind, gentle maiden," said he ; " would that I could reward ye ! An' hoo fares it with my puir mother ? — what answer does she send .''" " An' oh, ma'am, or mistress !" cried Simon, " hoo fares it wi' my dear wife an' bairns ? I hope ye told them all that I desired ye to say. lloo did she bear the news o' being made a widow .'' An' what did she say to my injunc- tion, that she was never to marry again ?" " Ye talk wildly, man," said the maiden, addressing Simon ; " it wasna in my power to carry yer commands to yer wifo ; but, I trust, it will be longer than ye expect be- fore she will be a widow, or hae it in her power to marry again }" " O ye angel ! ye perfect picture !" cried Simon, "what is that which 1 hear ye say ? Do ye really mean to tell me | that I stand a chance o' being saved, an that I shall see my wife an' bairns again ? " Even so," said she ; " but whether you do or do not, rests with yer master." " Speak not o that, sweet maiden," said the laird ; " but tell me. what says my mother? lloo does she bear the fate o" her son ; an hoo docs she promise to avenge my death." " She is as one whose heart-strings are toi-n asunder," was the reply, "an' who refuses to be comforted ; but slie wud rather hue another dochtcr than lose an only son ; an her jiraycr is, that ye will live and mak her haj>py, by mar- rying the maiden ye dcs])ise." " What !" ho cried, " has even my mother so far forgot herself, as to desire me to marry the doclitcr o' oor enemy, whom no other man could be found to take I It shall never be. I wud obey her in onything but that." " But," said the maiden, " I still think ye are wrong to reject an' despise puir IMeg before that ve hae seen lier. She may baith be better an' look better than ye are aware o'. There are as guid as Scott o' Harden who hae said, that were it in their power they wud mak her their wife; an' ye should remember sir, that it will be as pleasant for you to hear the blithe laverock singing owre yer head, as for another person to hear the wind soughing and the long grass rustling owre yer gi-ave. Ye hae another day to live, an' see her, an' speak to lier, Ijcfore ye decide rashly. Yours is a cruel doom, but Sir Gideon is a wrathfu' man; an' even for his ain flesh an' bluid he has but sma' compassion when his anger is provoked. Death, too, is an awfu' thing to think aboot ; an', therefore, for yer ain sake, an' for the sake o' yer puir distressed mother an' sisters, dinna come to a rash determination." " Sweet lass," replied he, ' I respect the sj-rapathy which ye evince ; but never shall Sir Gideon Murray say that, in order to save my life, he terrified me into a man-iage wi' his daughter. An' when my puir mother's grief has sub- sided, she will think difl'erently o' my decision." ' Weel, sir," said the maiden, " since ye will not listen to my advice — an' I own that I hae nae richt to offer it — I will send ane to ye whose persuasion will hae mair avail." " Whom will ye send .''" inquired the laird ; " it isna pos- sible that ye can hae been playing me false .''" " No," she rejilied, " that isna possible ; an' from her that I will send to you, ye will see whether or not 1 hae kept my word, guid an' truly, to fulfil yer message." So saying, she withdrew, leaving him much wondering at her words, and yet more at the interest which she took in his fate. But she had not long -s^-i thdra-rtTi when the prison- door was again opened, and Lady Scott rushed into the arms of her son. " My mother !" cried ho, starting back in astonishment — "my mother I — hoo is this .''" " Oh, joy, an' gladness, an' every blessing lie upon my ho- noured lady ! for noo I may stand some chance o' walkin' back upon my ain feet to see my family. Oh ! yer leddy- ship," Simon added, "join yer prayers to my prayers, an* try if ye can persuade my maister to marry Sir Gideon s dochter, an' thereby save baith his life an' mine." But she fell upon the neck of her son, and seemed not to hear the words which Simon addressed to her. "0 my son! my son!" she cried; "since there is no other w.ay by which yer life can be ransomed, yield to the demand o' the fierce JNIun-ay. I\Iany his daughter an' live — sare yer wretched mother's life ; for yer death. Willie wud be mine also." " Blother !" answered he vehemently, " I will never accept life upon such terms. I am in i\Iurray's hands, but the day may come — yea, see ye that it does come — when he shall fall into the hands o' the Scotts o Harden ; an' see ye that ye do to him as he shall have done to me. But, tell me mother, hoo are ye here ? Wherefore did ye venture, or hoo got ye permission to see me ? Ken ye not that if he found ye in his power, upon yer life also he Avud fix a ran- som?" " The kind lassie," she replied, " that brought the let- ter from yc, at my reiiucst conducted me here and cuu 2HG TALES OF THE BOllDERS. trivcd to get me permission to see ye ; an ste says that my visit shall not come to the knowledge o' Sir Gideon. But, O Willie ! as ye love an' respect the mother that hore ye, an' that nursed ye nicht an' day at her hosom, dinna throw awa yer life when it is in yer power to save it, hut marry I\Iiss IM array, an' ye may live, an' so may I, to see many happy days"; for, from a' that I hae heard, though not weel-favoured, she is a young lady o' an excellent disposi- tion !" " Oh ! that's richt, my leddy," interrupted Simon ; " urge him to man-y her, for it wud be a dreadfu' thing for him an' I to be gibbeted, as a pair o' perpetual spectacles for the ]\Iurrays to mak a jest o'. Ye ken if he does marry, an' if he finds he docsna like her, he can leave her; or he needna live wl' her , or, perhaps she may soon die ; an' ye will certainly agree that maniagc, ony way ye tak it, is to be desired, a thousand times owre, before a violent death. Therefore, urge him again, yer leddyship, for he may listen to what ye say, though he despises my words, an' will not hearken to my advice." "Simon," said the laird, "never shall a Murray hae it in his power to boast that he struck terror into the breast o' a Scott o' Harden. My determination is fixed as fate. I shall welcome my doom, an' meet it as a man. Come, dear mother," he added, " weep not, nor cause me to appear in the presence o' my enemies with a blanched cheek. Hasten to avenge my death, an' think that in yer revenge yer son lives again. Come, though I die, there will be moonlight again." She hung upon his breast and wept, but he turned away his head and refused to listen to her entreaties. The young maiden again entered the prison and said — " Ye must part noo, for in a few minutes Sir Gideon will be astir, an' should he find yer leddyship here, or discover that I hae brought ye, I wud hae sma' power to gie ye pro- tection." " Fareweel, dear mother ! — fareweel !" exclaimed the youth, grasping her hand. " O Willie ! Willie !" she cried, " did I hear ye, to see ye come to an end like this ! Bairn ! bairn ! live — for yer mother's sake, live !" " Fareweel, mother ! — fareweel !" he again cried, and the sentinel conducted her from the apartment. It again drew towards noon. The loud gong again sounded, and Simon sank upon his knees in despair, as the voice of the warder was heard crying — " It is the hour ! prepare the prisoners for execution !" Again the prison-door was opened, and Sir Gideon, with WTath upon his brow, stood before them. "Weel, youngster," said he, addressing the laird, "yer hour is come. What is yer choice — a wife or the wuddy ?" " Lead me to execution, ye auld knave," answered the laird, scornfully, " an' ken, that wi' the hemp around my neck, in contempt o' you an' yours, I will spit upon the ground where ye tread." "Here, guards!" cried Sir Gideon ; "lead forth William Scott o' Harden to execution. Strap him upon the nearest tree, an' there let him hang until the hauldest Scott upon the Borders dare to cut him down. As for you," added he, addressing Simon, ' I seek not your life ; depart, ye are *'ree ; but, beware hoo ye again fall into the hands o' Gideon JIurray." " No, sir !" exclaimed Simon, " tliough I am free to ac- knowledge that I hae nae ambition to die before it is the wise will an' purpose o' nature, yet I winna, I canna, leave my dear young maister ; an' if he be to suffer, I will share his fate. Only, Sir Gideon, there is ae thing I hae to say, an that is, that he is young, an' he is proud an' stubborn like ycrscl', an' though he will not, o' his ain free will an accord, nor in obedience to yer commandments, mar/yyer dochter — is it not possible to compel him whether he he willing or no, an so save his life, as it were, in spite o' him .'" " Away with both !" cried the knight, striking his ironed heel upon the ground, and leaving the apartment. " Then, if it is to be, it must he," said Simon, folding his arms in resignation, " an' there is no help for it ! But, oh, maister! maister ! ye hae acted foolishly." They were led from the prison-house, and through tha court-yard, towards a tall elm tree, round which all the re- tainers of Sir Gideon were assembled to witness the execu- tion ; and the old knight took his place upon an elevated seat in the midst of them. The executioners were preparing to perform their office when Agnes, or Muckle-mouthed Meg, as she was called, came forth, with a deep veil thrown over her face, and sinking on her knee before the old knight, said, implor- ingly — " A boon, dear faither — yer dochter begs a simple boon." " Ye tak an ill season to ask it, Meg," said the knight, angrily ; " hut what may it be }" She whispered to him earnestly for a few minutes, during which his countenance exhibited indignation and surprise ; and when she had finished speaking, she again knelt be- fore him and embraced his knees. " Rise, Meg, rise !" said he, impatiently, " for yer sake, an at yer request, he shall hae another chance to live." And, approaching the prisoner, he added — " William Soott, ye hae chosen death in preference to the hand o' my dochter. Will ye noo prefer to die rather than marry the lassie that ran wi' the letter to yer mother, an' without my consent brought her to see ye ?'" " Had another asked me the question," said the laird, I "though I ken not who she is, yet she has a kind heart, and I should hae said ' No', an' offered her my hand, heart, an fortune ; but, to you. Sir Gideon, I only say — do yei worst." " Then, Willie, my ain Willie !" cried his mother, who' at that moment rushed forward, " another does request y to marry her, an' that is yer ain mother !" " An'," said Agnes, stepping forward, and throwing aside' the veil that covered her face, " puir Jleg, owre whom ye gied a preference to the gallows, also requests ye !" " What !" exclaimed the young laird, gi-asping her hand,! " is the kind lassie that has striven, night and day, to save! me — the very IMeg that I hae been treating wi' disdain ? " In troth am I," she replied, " an' do ye prefer thej wuddy still .''" "No," answered he; and turaingtoSir Gideon, he added— I " Sir, I am now willing that this ceremony end in matri-l mony." " Be it so," said the old knight, and the spectators hurstl into a shout. The day that began with preparations for dfath, ended in a joyful bridal. The honour of knighthood was afterwards conferred upon the laird ; and Jlcg bore unto him manji sons and daughters, and was, as the reader will be ready to believe, one of the best wives in Scotland ; while Simon de-j clared that he never saw a better-looking woman in Eltrick Forest, his own wife and daughters not excepted. WILSON'S ?l?t!StortraI, arrnlittt'ottnr»), anX> irm.ismntil)? ri^ rALES OF THE BORDERS. WILLIE WASTLE'S A.CCOUNT OF HIS WIFE " Sic a wife as WilUc liad .' ] WHilna gic a button tor Iicr ** Burns.* 'It ums a very cruel diino tliinij; in my iieebor, Robert Burns, to niak ii sang abnot inv wife' and me," said BIr William VVastle, as be sat witb a friend over a jug of reeking toddy, in a tavern near tbe Bridge-end in Dumfries, ^^■llere be bad been attending tbe cattle market ; " I didna tliiid-c it was iieebor-like," be added ; " indeed, it was a rank libel upon baitb ber aud me; and I tocdc it tbe worse, in;ismnob as I always bad a very bigb respect for iMaister B-urns. Tbougb lie said tliat I ' dwalt on Tweed," and tbat I ' was a wab- ster," yet everybody kenned wba tbe sang was aimed at. Neitber did my wife merit tbe description tbat bas been drawn o' ber ; for, tliongh sbe was nae beauty, and badna a face like a wax-doll, yet tbere were tbousands o' waur looking women to lie met wi' tban my Kirsty ; and to say tbat ber mitber was a ' tinkler,' was very unjustifiable, for ber parents were as decent and respectable people, in tbeir spliere o' life, as ye would bae found in a' Nitbsdale. Her faitber bad a small farm wbicb joined on witli one tbat I took a lease o', wben I «as about one-and-twenty. Kirsty was alxiut tbree years aulder ; and, tbougb not a bonny woman, sbe was, in many respects, as ye sball bear in tbe coorse o' my story, a very e.xtraordinary one. I was in tbe liabit o' seeing ber every day, aud as I sometimes was working in a liebl next to ber, I bad every opportunity o' observing her industry, and tbat, frae niornin' till nicht, she was aye eident. This gave me a far higher opinion o' ber tban if I liad seen ber gann aboot wi' a buskit liead ; and often, at meal-times, I used to stand and speak to her owre tbe dyke. But, after we had been acquainted in this manner for some months, when the cheerfu' summer weather came in, and the grass by tbe dyke-sides was ivarm and green, and the bonny gowans blossomed amang it, I louped owre the dyke. * >Ir All.in Cunningham, in his Life of Bums, states the following pai'ticulars respecting \Villie*8 wife : — viz., that " He was a farmer, ^\'ho .ived near Burns, at Ellisland. She was a very singular woman — tea, she saiil, would be the ruin of the nation; sugar was a sore evil; whcatcn bread was only fit for babes; earthenware was a pickjiockct, wooden floors ^vere but fit for thrashing upon; slated roofs, cold; feathers [jood enough for foivls. In short, she abhorred ciiange ; and •whenever anything new appeared — such as harrows with iron teeth Ay! ay!' she woitld exclaim, ' ye'll see the upshot !' Of all modern tmirgs she disliked china most — she called it • burnt clay,* and said * it was only fit for haudirr* the broo o' stitrkin' weeds,' as sbe called tea. On one occasion, an. Knglish dealer in cirps arrd saucers asked so much for his M'ares, llrat he ex.isperatcd a peasant, who said, * I canna pur- chase, bitt I ken ane that will. Gang there,' said he, pointing to the house of Willie's wife, * dinna be blate or burd-moothed ; ask a guid venny — she has the siller !' Away went the poor dealer, spread out his wares before her, and summed up all by asking a double price. A blow from her crummock was his instant reward, which not (Mily fell on his I crson, but damaged his china. ' I'll learn ye,' quoth she, as she heard the saucers jingle, ' to come wi' yei btazcnt English free, and yer bits •I burnt clay to me!' She was an unlovely dame — her rlaughters, fatwever. were beautiful " 37. V(.;.. L and we sat dotin turd took our dinners togetlier. I couldna have believed it jrossible that :i bit bear bannock and a drap skiin ntilk wad gang donn sae deliciously, but never before had I partaken o' onything that was sae pleasant to tbe jia- late. One day I was quite surprised, wlien I found that my arm had slipped unconsciously round her waist, and, drawing her closer to my sitle, I seigbed, and said — ' C Kirsty, woman !' " yite pulled away my band from her waist, and looking me in the face, said — ' Weel, Willie, man, what is't .'"' " ' Kirsty,' said I, ' I like ye.' " ' I thoeht as meikle,' quoth she, ' but could ye no hae said sae at ance.' " ' Perhaps I could, dear,' said I ; ' but ye ken true love is aye blate ; however, if ye hae nae objections, I'll gang yont, after fothering-time the nicht, and speak to yer faitber and mither ; and if they hae nae objections, and ye have yei providin' ready, wi' yer guid-will and consent, I sball gifc up oor names, and we shall he cried on Sabbath first.' " ' Oh,' said she, ' I haena lived for five-and-twenty years without expectin' to get a guidman some day ; antl 1 bae had my providin' ready since I was eighteen, an' a' o' my ain spinnin' an bleachin', an' the lint bocht wi' what 1 had wrocht for; so that I am behauden to naebody. My faitber and mither have mair sense than to cast ony obsta- cle in the way o' my weelfare ; and, as ye are far frae bein disagreeable to me, if we are to be married, it may as weel be sune as syne, and we may be cried on Sunday if ye think proper.' " ' O Kirsty, woman !' cried I, and I drew my arm round her waist again, " ye hae made me as happy as a prince ! I hardly ken which end o' me is upmost !' " ' Na, Willie,' said she, ' there is nae necessity for ony nonsensical raptures ; ye ken perfectly weel that yer head is upmost, though I hae heard my faitber talk about some idiots that he ca's pbilosoj)hers, who say that the world whirls roond aboot like a cart-wheel on an axletree, and tbat ance in every twenty-four hours our feet are upmost, and our bead downmost ; but it will be lang or onybody get me to believe in sic balderdash ! As to yer being happy at present, it sball be n.ne faut o' mine if ye are not aye sae ; and if ye aye be as I would wish ye to be, ye will never be unhappy.' " Such, as near as I can recollect, is not only the history, but tbe exact words o' oor courtship. Her faitber and mither gied their consent withoot the slightest hesitation. I remember her faitber's words to me \;ere — ' ^\'eel, Wil. liam, frae a' that I hae seen o' ye, ye ajrpear to be a very steady and industrious young man, and ane that is likely to do weel in the world. I hae seen, also, wi' great satisfac- tion, that ye are very regular in yer attendance upon the ordi- nances ; there hasna been a Sabbath, since ye cam to be oor nceljor, that I hae missed ye oot 0' yer seat in tbe kirk Frae a' that I hae heard concernin' ye also, ye hae always been a serious, sober, and weel-behaved ^ouug man. These things are a great satisfaction to a faither, wlien be fiiid.s them in tbe lad tbat his docbter wishes to marry. Ye hae my consent to tak Kirsty; and, though I say it, I be- lieve ye will find ber to mak as iiulustrious, carefu', and kind a wife, as ye would bae found if ye had sought through a' broad Scotland for ane. I will say itj liowever, and be- 290 TALES OF THE BORDEPtS. fore her face, that there are some things in u hith slie takes it o' Iier mother, and in which she will .lae her ain way. But this is her only faut. I'm sure ye'll ne'er hae cause to complain o' her wasting a bawhee, or o' her allooing even the heel o' a kebbuck to gang to unuse. It is needless for me to say mair; but ye hae my full and free consent to marry when ye like.' " Then up spoke the auld guidwife, and said — ' AVeel, Willie, lad, if you and Kirsty hae made up yer minds to mak a bargain o' it, I am as little disposed to oppose yer inclinations as her faither is. A guid wife, I sincerely believe, ye will find her prove to ye ; and though her fuilher says that in some things she will be like me, and have her ain way, let me tell ye, lad, that is owre often necessary for a woman to do, wha is striving everything in her power for the guid o' her husband and the family, and sees him, just through foolishness as it -were, striving against her. Ye are strange beings you men-folk to deal wi'. But j-e winna find her a bare bride, for she has a kist fu' o' linen o' her ain spinnin', that may serve ye a' yer days, and even when ye are dead, though ye should live for sixty years." '■ I thought it rather untimeous that the auld woman should hae spoken about linen for our grave- clacs, before we were man-ied; and I suppose my countenance had hinted as much, for Kirsty seemed to hae observed it, azid slie said — ' jMy mother says what is and ought to be. It is aye best to be provided for whatever may come ; and as Death often gies nae v.-arning, I wadna like to be met wi' it, and to hae naething in the house to lay me out in like a christian.' " I thought there was a vast deal o' sense and discretion in what she said ; and though I didna like the idea o' such a premature providing o' winding-sheets, yet, after she spoke, 1 hlglilv approved o' her prudence and forethought. " it was on a Blonday afternoon, about thi'ee weeks after the time I have been speaking o', that Kirsty, wi' her faither, ind mother, and another young lass, an acquaintance o' hers, that was to be best maid, cam yont to my house for her and me to be married. I had sent for ane o' my brothers to be best-man, and he was with me waiting when they came. She was not in the least discomposed, but behaved very modestly. In a few minutes the minister arrived, when the ceremony immediately began, and within a quarter of an hour she was mine, and I was hers, for the term o' our natural lives. " From the time that I took the farm, I had had no kind o' dishes in the house, save a wooden bowic or twa, four trenchers, three piggins, and twa l)its o' tin cans, that I had bought from a travelling tinker for twopence a piece, and which Kirsty afterwards told me, were each a halfpenny a-piece aboon their value. I dinna think that I had tasted tea aboon a dozen times in the whole course o' my life; but as it was coming into general use, I thought it would look respectfu' to my bride, before her faither and mother, if I should hae tea upon our marriage day, and I could ask the minister to stop and tak a dish wi' us. I thought it would gic a character o' respeetaliility to oor wedding. Therefore on the day afore the marriage, I went into Dumfries, and bought half a dozen o' bonny blue cups and saucers. I never durst tell Kirsty how nieikle I gied for them. It was with great difficulty that I got them carried hame without breaking. I also bought two ounces o' the best tea, and a whole pound o' brown sugar. '• I had a servant lassie at tlie lime, the dochter o' a hind in the neighbouihood ; she was necessary to me to do the work about the house, and to milk twa kye that I kept, (o mak the cheese, and a part o' the day to help the woikers out wi' the bondage. '■■ ' Lassie,' said I, when I got hame ; ' do ye ken hoo to mak tea.!"' " ' I'm no very sure,' said she; 'but I think I do. I ance j^ot a cu]) when I "asna wee], frae the fanner's vnfc that my tailhw b.ves wi'. I'll try.' ITere, then, says I : ' tak care o' thir, and see that ye dinna break them, or it ^ill mak a breaking that ye wouldna like in your quiixter's wages.' So I gied her the cups and saucers to put awa carefully into the press. " ' O m.aister,' says she ; ' but noo, when I recollect, jtll need a tea-kettle, and a tea-pat, and a cream -pat, and tea- '^poons.' " ' Preserve me!' quoth I, ' the lassie is surely wrang in the head! Hoo mony articles o' lea and cream hae ye there.' The parritch kettle will do as weel as a tea-kettle — where can be the difference.'' Your tea-pats I ken naething aboot , and as fur a cream-pat, set doAvn the crcam-bowie ; and aa for spoons, ye fool, they dinna sip tea — they drink it — just sirplc it, as it were, out o' the saucer.' " sir,' said she ; ' but they need a little spoon to stir it round to mak the sugar melt — and that is weel minded, ye'll also require a sugar-basin' " ' Hoots ! toots ! lassie,' cried I, 'do ye intend to ruin me? By yer account o' the matter, it would be almost as expen- sive to set up a tea equipage, as a chariot equipage. No, no; just do as the miller's wife o' Newmills did.' " ' And what way micht that be, sir?' inquired she. " ' Why,' said I, ' she took such as she had, and she never wanted ! Just ye tak such as ye have — cogie, bowie, oi tinniken, never ye mind — shew ye your dexterity.' " ' Very weel sir,' said she ; ' I'll do the best I can.' " But, just to exemplify another trait in my wife's cha- racter, I will tell ye the upshot o' my cups and saucers. I confess that I was' in a state o' very considerable perturba- tion; not only on account o'what the lassie had told me about the wanto' a tea-kettle, tea-p.at, and so forth, but also that, including the minister, there were seven o' us, while I had but six cups ; and I consoled mysel by thinking that, as Kirsty and I were now one, she might drink cot o' the cup and I would tak the saucer, so that a cup and saucer would serve us baith; and I was trusting to the ingenuity o' the lassie to find substitutes for the other deficiencies, when she came ben to where we were sitting, and going forward to Kirsty, says she — ' Mistress, I have had the twa ounces o' tea on boiling in a chappin o' water, for the last twa hoors — do j-e think it will be what is ca'ed vwskcd noo .''' " ' Tea !' said my new-made wife, wi' a look o' astonish- ment ; 'is the lassie talking aboot tea! While I am to be in this house — and I suppose that is to be for my liie — there shall nae poisonous foreign weed be used in it, nor come within the door, unless it be some drug that a doctor orders. Take it off the fire, an d throw the broo awa. 5Iy certes ! if young folk like us were to begin wi' sic extravagance, where would be the upshot ? Na, na, AVillie,' said she, turning round to me, "let us just begin precisely as we mean to end. At all events, let us rather begin meanly, than end beggarly. I hae seen some folk, no aboon oor condition in life, mak a great dash on their wcdding-dav ; and some o' them even hire gigs and coaches, forsooth, to tak a jaunt awa for a dozen o' miles '. Poor things ! it was the first and last time (hat ony o' them was either in gig or coach. Bui there shall be nae extravagance o' that kind for me. Jly faither and mother care naething about tea, for they Lae never been used to it, and I'm sure that our friends licre caM as little ; and, asking the minister's pardon, I am perfectly sure and certain, that tea can be nae treat to him, for he has it every daj', and it will be standing ready for liim when he gangs hame. The supper will be ready by eight o'clock, and those who wish it, may tak a glass o' speerits in the meantime — as it isna every day that they are at my wedding.' " Her faither and mother looked remarkable proud and weel-plcased like at what she said, just as if they wished to say to me — ' There's a wife for ye I" But 1 thought the min- ister sconicd a good deal surprised, and in a few minutes lie took uo his hat, wished "is much joy, and went away, i'oi TALES OF Till': BORDERS. 291 my pari, I iliiliiu (liliik stic mnrli alioot my Liiilo's lecture, as I njiiicod that slic tlicroliy released me from the confusion I should luxvc cx|iericiiced in exposing the poverty o' my tea ©quijiago. " It was on the very morning after oor marriage, and just as I was gaun out to my wark — ' AVillie,' says she, ' I think wc sliould single tlie turnips in tlu' field west o' the house thi^ day. The cotters' twa hondage lassies, and me, will he aide to manage it hy the morn's iiielit. " ' () my dear,' quoth I, ' hut I liae nae intention tliat ye should gang out into the fields to work, noo that ye are my wife. Let the servant lass gang out, and ye can look after the meat.' " ' Iler ! the idle tauiiic !' said slie, ' we liae nae mair need for her than a cart has for a third wheel. IMony a time it lias grieved me to ohserve her motions, when ye were out o' the way — and there would she and the other twa nenehes been standing, clashing for an hour at a time, and no workin a stroke. I often liad it in m^' mind to tell ye, hut only I thought ye might tliink it forward in me, as I perceived ye had a kindness for me. But I can haith do all that is to do in-doors, and work out-liy also, and at the end o' the quarter she shall leave. " ' Wi' a' my heart/ says L 'if ye wish it;' for it struck me she mieht be a wee thocht jealous o' the lassie ; ' Imt there is no the sma'est necessity for you working out in the Kelds ; for though slie leaves, we can get a callant at three- ]ience a-daj', that would just do as meikle out-work as she does, and ye would hae naething to attend to but the affairs o' the house.' " ' O William replied she, ' I'm surprised to hear ye speak. Ye talk o' threepence a-day just as if it were nae- thing. IIoo nionv starving families are there, that three- pence a-day would mak happy. It is ni}' maxim never to spend a penny unless it be laid out to the greatest possible advantage. Ye should always keep that in view, every time ye put your hand in your pocket. lie that saves a penny, l\as as mony thanks, in the lang run, as he that gies it awa. Threepence a-day, not including the Sabbath, is eighteen- pence a-week ; noo, 3'ou that are a scholar, only think how much that comes to in a twelvemonth. There are fifty-twa weeks in the year — that is, fil'ty-twa shillings; and fifty-twa sixpences is — how much.^' " ' Twenty-six shillings, my aear,* said I, for I was quite amused at her calculation — the thing had never struck me before. "' \Vcel ' added she, 'fifty-two shillings and twenty-six shillings, put that together and see how much it comes to.' " ' Oh,' says I, after half a minute's calculation, it will just be three pounds, eighteen shillings, to a farthing. "'Noo,' cried she, 'only think 0' that ! — three pounds eighteen shillings a-3'ear; and ye would throw it away, just as if it were three pufYs o' breath ! Now, AVilliam, just iisten to me and tak tent : — that is within twa shillings o' fiur |>ound3. It would far mair than deed you and me, out iiiid out, frae head to foot, from year's end to year's end. But I at present the wench's meat and wages come to three times that, ana therefore I am resolved, William, that while I am able to work, we shall neither throw away the one nor the other. It is best that we should underst;iiid each other in time ; therefore, I just teU ye plainly, as I said yesterday, that as I wish to eml, I mean to begin This very day, this very morning and hour, I go out wi' the bondage lassies to single the turnips ; and, at the end o' the quarter, the lazy taupie butt-a-house, maun walk aboot her business." "'Weel, Kirsty, my darling,' says I, 'your way it. Only I maun again say. that 1 had no wish or inclination A-hatever, to see you toiling and thinning turnips heneath a burning sun, or maybe taking them up and shawing them, when the cauld drift was cutting owre the face keen than razor. "'V/eel,'\Vdllam,'ipinih she, -it is needless saying any more words about it — it is my fixed and determined resolution.' " ' Then, hinny,' says I, ' if ye be absolutely resolved upon that, it is 0' no manner o' use to say ony mair npou tho subject, of course — your way be it.' " So thc'scrvant lassie "as discharged accordingly, and Kirsty did everything hersel. Wet day and dry day, what- ever kind o' wark was to be done, there was sheiu the mid- dle o' it, by her example spurring on the bondagers Even when we began to hae a fiimily, 1 hae seen her working in the fields wi' an infant on her back ; and I am certain that for a dozen o' harvests, while she was aye at tho head o' the shearers, there was aye our bairn that was youngest at the time, lying rowed up in a blanket at the foot o' the rig, and playing wi' the stubble to amuse itsel. "There were many tiiat said that I was entindy under lier lluiml), and that she had the maister-skep owre me. liut that was a grand mistake, for she by no means exercised ony thing like maistershi]) owre me ; though I am free to con- fess, that I at all times paid a great degree o' deference to her opinions, and that she had a very particular and jiower- fu' way o' enforcing them. Yet, although I was in no way cowed by her, there wasna a bairn that we had, from the auldcst to the 3-oungest, that durst play cliecp before her She certainly had her family under great subjection, and their bringing up did her great credit. They were allowed time to play like ither bainis — but from the time that they were able to make use o' their hands, ye would hardly hae found it possible to come in upon u?, and seen ane o' them idle. All were busy wi' something; and no ane 0' them durst hae stepped owre a prin lying on the floor, without stoo]iiiig doun to tak it up, or passed onything that was out o' its place without putting it right. For I \\ ill say for hei again, that, if my Kirsty wasna a bonny wife, she was not only a thrifty but a tidy ane, and kecpit every ane and every thing tidj' around her. " iShe was a strange woman for abhoiTing everything that was new-fangled. She was a most devout believer in, and worshipper o' the wisdom o' oor ancestors. She perfectly hated everything like change ; and as to onything that im- plied speculation, }-e mieht as weel hae sjioken o' profanation in her presence. She said she liked auld friends, auld cus- toms, auld fashions; and was the sworn enemy o' a' the in- novations on the practices and habits that had been handed doun frae generation to generation. I dinna ken if ever slie heard the names Whig or Tory in her life ; but if Tory mean an enemy o' change, then my Kirsty certainly was a 1'ory o' the very pui'est: water. "I dinna EU)ipose thai she believed there was such a word as iitqiiuvcmenl in the whole Dictionary. She would hae allooepear like a man before folk. Our loss is nae doubt great, but in time we may g<'t owcr it; and be thankfu' that it is nae waur than it is like to be — for your wife and bairns are sjiarcd to ye, and we have escaped unskaithed.' " 'Awa ye descendant o' Judas Iscariot !' cried I; ' dinna speak to me !' William,' said she, calndy, ' what infatuation possesses ye. man .'' — dinna male a fool o' yoursel'.' Awa wi' ye !' cried I, perfectly shaking wi' rage. '• Dear me !' I heard a neighbour remark to another ; ' how gi-uflly he speaks to Kirsty ! I aye thought that she had the upperhand o' him, but it doesna appear by his manner o' speaking to her.' "Distracted, wretched, and angry as I was, I experienced a sort o' secret pleasure at hearing the observation. I had shewn them that I wasna a slave tied to my wife's apron- strings, as they supposed me to be. Kirsty left me wi' a look that had baith scorn and pity in it. But oor auldcst lassie, my bonny fair-haired Janet — to look upon whose face I always delighted beyond everything on earth — came running forward to me, and throwbg her arms about my neck, sobbed wi' her face upon ray breast, and softly whispered — ' Dinna stand that way, faither, a' body is looking at ye ; and dinna speak harshly to my poor mother — she is distressed enough without you being angry wi' her.' I bent my head upon my bairn's shouther, and the tears ran doun my cheeks. " By this time, everything was oot o' the house ; and the fire was prevented frae reaching it, chiefly through the daring exertions o' a hafflins laddie, whose name was James Patrick, who was the son o' a neebor farmer, and who though no aboon seventeen years o' age, I observed was very fond o' oor bonny Jauet; for I had often observed the young creatures wandering in the loaning thegither; and when ye mentioned the name o' the ane before the other, the blood rose to their face. "Next morning, the stackyard, barn, byres, and stables, presented a fearful picture o' devastation. There was naething to be seen but the still smoking heaps o' burnt straw and roofless buildings, wi' wreck and ruin to the richt hand and to the left. Some thought that the calamity would knock me aff my feet, and cause me to become a broken man — and I thought myself that that would be its effect. But Kirsty was determined that we shmdd never sink while we bad a finger to wag to keep us aboon the water. Cheap as she had always maintained the house, she now keepit it at almost no expense whatever. For more tlian two years, nothing w.is allowed to come into it but what the farm produced, and what we had within ourselves, neither in meat nor in claething. 294 TALES OF THE J30KDERS. "But though I witnessed all her exertions, nothing could satisfy my mind that she was not the cause o' the destruc- tion o' the machine, and throULjh it o' all that was in and about the stack yard. The idea haunted me perpetually, and rendered me miserable, and I could not look upon my wife without saying to myself — ' Is it possible that she coidd hae been guilty o' such folly and great wickedness.' I was the more confirmed in my suspicion, because she never again nicntioneil the subject o' the macliine in my hearing, neither would she allow it to be spoken aboot b_y any ane else. " Wliat gratified me niaist, during the years that we had to undergo privation, was the cheerfulness wi' which all the bairns submitted to it; and I couldna deny that it was solely to her excellent manner o' bringing them up. Our Janet, who was approaching what may be called woman- hood, was now talked o' through the hale countryside for her beauty and sweet temper : and it pleased me to observe, that, during our misfortune, the attentions o' James Patrick (through whose skilful exertions oor house was saved frae the conflagration) increased. It was admitted, on all hands, tliata more win.some couple were never seen in Nithsdale. " Oor auldest son David, who was only fifteen months younger than his sister, had also grown to be o' great assist- ance to me. Before he was seventeen lie was capable o' man's work, which enabled me to do with a hind less than I had formerly employed. My landlord, also, was very con- siderate ; and, the first year after the burning, he gave me liack tlie half o' the rent, which I, with great diSiculty, had been able to scrape thegether. But when I went hame, and, in the gladness o' my heart, began to count down the money upon the table before Kirsty and the bairns, and to tell them how good the laird had been — ' Tak it up, William ! ' cried she, ' tak it up, and gang back wi' it — he would consider it an obligation a' the days o' our lives. I will be beholden to neither laird nor lord ! nor shall ony ane belonging to me — sac, tak back the money, for it isna ours ! ' " ' Bless me ! ' thought I, ' but this is something very remark- able. This is certainly another proof that she really is at the bottom o' the fire-raising. It is the consciousness o' her guilt that makes her shudder at and refuse the kindness o' the laird.' '"It is braw talking, Kirsty,' said I; 'but I see nae necessity for persons that hae been visited wi' a misfortune such as we met wi', and wha hae suffered sae much on account o' it, to lot their pride do them an injury or exceed their dis- cretion. Consider that we hae a rising family to provide for.' " ' Consider what ye like,' quotli she, ' but, if ye accept the siller, consider what will be the upshot. Ye would hae to be hat in hand to him at all times and on all occasions. Yer very bairns would be, as it were, his bought slaves. No, William, tak back the money — I order ye ! ' " ' Ye order me ! ' cried I, ' there's a guid ane ! — and whore got ye autliority to order me. If ye will hae the siller taen back, tak it back yersel.' " Without saying anotlier word, she absolutely whipped it off the table, every plack and bawbee, into her apron; and, throw- ing on her rokelay and hood, set aff to the laird's wi' it, where, as I Nvas afterwards given to understand, slie threw it down upon his table wi' as little ceremony as she had sweept it aff mine. " Ye may wecl imagine, that baith my astonishment and vexation wore very considerable. I had seen a good deal o' Kirsty, but the act o' taking back the siller crowned a' ! "'Losh!' said I, in tlie pure bitterness o' my spirit, 'that caps a' ! — that is even worse than destroying the machine, wi' the stacks and stabling into the bargain I ' " ' AVhat do ye mean about destroying the machine, faither?' inquired Janet and David, almost at the same instant — ' who do ye say destroyed it? ' " 'Naeboby,' said I, angrily, ' naebody ! ' — for I found I had said what I ou^ht not to liae said. " ' Really, faither,' said Janet, ' whatever it may be that ye tliink and hint at, I am certain that ye do my mother a great injustice if ye harbour a single thought to her pre- judice. It may appear rather proud-spirited her tackin' back the siller, though I hae nae doubt, in the lang run, but we'll a' approve o' it.' " ' That is exactly what I think, too,' said David. "'Oh, nae dout!' said I, 'nae dout o' that! — for she has ye sae learned, that everything she does, or that ony o' ye does, is always right ; and whatever I do mast be wrang! ' and I went out o' the house in a pet, driving the door behind me, and thinking about the machine and the loss o' the siller. " Ilooever, I am happy to say, that although Kirsty did tak back the money to the laird and leave it wi' him, yet. as I have already hinted to ye, through her frugal manage- ment, within a few years we got the better o' the burning. But there is a saying, that some folk are no sooner weel than they're iU again — and I'm sure I may say that at that time. I no sooner got the better o' the effects o' ae cala- mity, until another owretook me. Ye hae heard what a terrible dirdum the erecting o' toll-bars caused throughout tlie country, and upon the Borders in particular. Kirsty was one o' those who cried oot most bitterly ajainst them. She threat- ened, that if it were attempted to place ane within ten miles o' oor farm, she would tear it to pieces with her ain hands. "'Here's a bonny time o' day, indeed!' said she, 'that a body canna gang for a cart-load o' coals or peats, or tak their corn, or whatever it may be, to the market, but they must pay whatever a set o' Justices o' the Peace please to charge them for the liberty o' driving alang the road. Na, na! the roads did for our faithers before us, and they will do for us. They went alang them free and without payment, and so will we ; for I defy any man to claim, what has been a public road for ages, as his property. Only submit to such an imposition, and see what will be the upshot. But, rather than they shall mak sic things in this neighbourhood, I will raise the whole countryside.' " Unfortunately in this, as in everything else, she verified her words. A toll-bar was erected within half-a-mile o' oor door. Kirsty was clean mad about it. She threatened not only to break the yctt to pieces, but to hang the toll-keeper owre the yett-post, if he offered resistance. I thought o' my machine, and said little ; and the more especially, because every ane, baith auld and young, and through the whole country, so far as I could hear, were o' the same sentiments as Kirsty. There never was onything proposed in this kingdom that was inair unpopular. And, I am free to con- fess, that, with regard to the injustice o' toll-bars, I wns precisely o' the same way o' thinking as my wife— only I by no means wished to carry things to the extremes tliat she wished to bring them to. " I ouglit to tell ye, tliat our laird was more than sus- pected o' being the priucip.al cause o' ns having a toll-bar placed so near us, so that we could neither go to hme, coals, nor market, without gaun through it. I was, therefore, almost glad that my wife had taken back the siller to him, lest — as I was against raising a disturbance about the matter — folk should say, that my hands and tongue were tied wi' the siller which he hail given me back ; for, if I didna wish to be considered the slave o' my wife, as little did I desire to be thought the tool o' my landlord. But, ae day, I had been in at Dumfries in the month o' July, selling my wool ; I had met wi' an excellent market, and a wool-buyer from Leeds and I got very hearty thegether. He had bought from me before ; and, on that day, he bought all tliat I had. I knew him to be an excollont man, though a keen Yorkshireman ; and, ye ken, that the Yorkshire folk and we Scotchmen are a gay tight match for ane anither — though I believe, after a', thoy ratlier boat us at keepingjthe grip o' the siller ; but as TALES OF THE BORDERS. 2y5 I iiitondcd to sny, I treated Iiim, and lie treated me, and a very agreeable day we had. I recdllect ulien lie uas pres- sing me to hao Hk; other gill, I sang him a bit liamely sang, luy ain composing. Ye sluill hear it. Nay, dirina [iioss, I winna stay. For ilriiik stwiU neVr almse me; Il's time to rise and gaiij; away— Sue lasibui's ye'U excuse inc. It'a true I like a social gill, A friendly crack %\'i* cronies; But I like my ivifie belter still, Oui- Jennies an' one .lolnmit-s. There's soinitliinj; l.y my ain fireside— A saft, a lialy sweetness ; I sec, wi' mail- than kingly pride, iMy hearth a heaven o' neatness. Tlioiigh whisky may g\e care the flinf, Its u-iiinipli's nnco noisy; A jitfy it may pleasure bring, lint cunjfoit it destroys aye. But I can view my ain fireside Wi' a' a faither's rapture; — Wee .lemiy's hand in mine will slide, While Davy reads his chapter. I like your company an' your crack, But there's ane 1 loo deai'er, Ane nha will sit till I come back Wi' ne'er a ane to cheer her. A wait' o' joy conies owre her face The moment that she hears me; The supper — a' thing's in its place, An' wi' her smiles she cheers me. However, I declare to you, it was very near ten o'clock bel'ure I left the house we are sitting in at present, and put my foot in the stirrup. But, as my friend Robin says — * Weel mounted on my grey meer iVIeg,' I feared for naething ; and, though 1 had saxteen lang Scots miles to ride, I thought naething about it; for, as he says again— * Kings may be great, but I was glorious, Owre a' the ills o' life victorious!' But. just as I had reached within about half a mile o' the toll-bar that had been erected near my farm, I saw a sort o' light rising frae the ground, and reflected on the sky. My heart sank within me in an instant. I remembered the last time I had seen such a light. I thought o' my burning stackyard, o' my ruined machine, and o' Kirsty ! My first impulse was to gallop forward, but a thousand thoughts, a thousand fears came owre me in an instant ; and I thought that evil tidings come quick enough o' their ain accord, without galloping to meet them. As I approached the toll- bar, the flame and the reflection grew brigliter and brighter ; and 1 heard the sound o' human voices, in loud and discord- ant clamour. My forebodings told me, to use Kirsty 's words, what would be the upshot. I hadua reached within a hun- llrcd yards o' the bar, when, aboon a' the shouting and the uproar, I heard her voice, the voice o' my ain wife, crying — Mak him promise that it shall ne'er be put up again — mak him swear to it — or let his yeit gang the gaet o' the toll-yett !' " In a moment all that I had dreaded I found to be true. At the sound o' her voice, hounding on the enraged multi- tude, (tliough I didna altogether disapprove o' what they were doing,) I plunged my spurs into my horse, and galloped into the middle o" the outrageous crowd, crying — ' Kirsty! I say, Kirsty awa hame wi' ye ! A\'hat right or what autliority had je to he there .'' " ' Hear hiiu 1 liear him !' cried the crowd, Willie has turned a toll-bar man, and a laird man, because the laird once oflered him t'"^ l''ilt t>' his rent back again ! Never mind him, Kirsty • — "'-''H stand yer friends f " ' I thank ye, neighbours,' said she, ' but I require nae- body to stand as friends between my guidman and me. I Icen it is my duty to obey him, that is, when he is himsel, uid comes hanie at ^ reasonable time o' nicht ; but not when I he is in a way that Le doesna ken what Le's stiylng, as he is the nicht.' " ' Weel done, IMistrcss Wastle !' cried a dozen «' them, ' we see ye hae the whip-hand o' him yet I' " ' The mischief tak ye !' cried I, ' for a wheen ill-man ncred scoundrels ; but I'll let every mother's son and doch- ter among ye ken wliase hand the whip is in !' " And, wi' that, I began to lay about me on every side ; but, before I had brought the whip h;df-a-dt)Z('n o' times round my head, I found that the horse was out from under me ; and there was I wi' my back upon the ground, while, on the one side, was a heavy foot upon my breast, and, on the other, Kirsty threatening ony ane that would injure a hair o' her husband's head ; and my son David ;ind James Patrick rushing forward, seized the man liy the tliroat that had his foot upon my breast, and, in an instant, they had him lying where 1 had lain ; for they were stout powerfu' Lids. " But when I got upon my feet, and began to recover from the surprise that I had met wi', there did I see the laird himsel, standing trembling like an ash leaf in the middle o' the unruly mob — and, as ringleader o' the whole, my wife ' Kirsty shaking her hand in his face, and endeavouring to extort from him a promise, that there never should be another toll-bar erected upon his grounds, while he was laird ! " ' Kirsty!' I exclaimed, ' what are ye after r" Are ye mad? " ' No, William !' cried she, ' I am not mad, but I am standing out for our rights against injustice ; and sorry am I to perceive, that at a time when everybody is crying out, and raising their hand against the oppression that is at- tempted to be practised upon them, my guidman should be the only coward in the countryside.' " ' AV^illiam Wastle !' said the terrified laird, whom some o' them were handling very roughly, (and principally', I must confess, at the instigation o' Kirsty,) ' I am glad to see that I have one tenant upon my estate who is a true man ; and I ask your protection.' '"■ ' Such protection as I can afford, sir,' said I, ' ye shall have ; but, after the rough handling which I have expe- rienced this very moment, 1 dout it is not much thrt is in my power to afford ye.' " ' Get yer faither awa to his bed, bairns !' cried my wife, as I was driving my -way through the crowd to the assistance o' the laird ; and I'll declare, if my son David and James Patrick, didna actually come behind me, and, lifting me aff my feet, can-ied me shouther-high a' the way to my bedroom ; and, in sjiite o' my threats, expostulations, and commands, locked me into it. " Weel, thought I, as i threw myself down upon the bed without taking afr my clacs, (partly because 1 found my head wanted ballast to tak them aff,) I said unto mysel — ' This comes o' having a wise and headstrong wife, and bairns o' her way o' bringing up. But if ever I marry again and hae a family, I shall ken better how to act.' " Notwithstanding all that I had undergene and witnessed, in the space o ten minutes, I fell fast asleep ; and the first thing that I awoke to recollect — that is to be conscious o' — was my daughter Janet rushing to my bedside, .n.nd crying — ' Faither ! faither ! my mother is a prisoner ! — my poor lear mother, and .James Patrick, also ! — and I heard the laird saying that they would baith be transported, as the very least that could happen them for last night's woik, which I understand will be punished more severely than even liighw.ay robbery !' 1 awoke like a man born to a consciousness o' horror and o' naething but horror. All that I had seen and heard, and encountered on the night before, was just as a dream to me, but a dismal dream I trow. " ' Where is yer mother .'' I gasped, ' or what is it that ye are saying, hinny ? and — where is James Patrick ?' " ' Oh !' cried my dtirling daughter, • before this time they are baith in Dumfries jail, for pu'ing down and burn- 296 TALES OF THE BOEDERS. ing the toll-yctts, and threatening the life o' the laird. But everybody says it will gang particularly hard against my mother and poor James ; for, tliough every one was to blame, they were what they ca' ringleaders.' " I soon recollected enough o' the previous night's pro- ceedings to comprehend what my daughter said. I hurried on my claes, and awa I flew to Dumfries. But I ought to tell ye, that the laird's servants had ridden in every direction for assistance ; and having got three or four constables, and about a dozen o' the regular military, all armed wi' swords and pistols, they made poor Kirsty and James Patrick, wi' about a dozen others, prisoners and conveyed them to Dumfries jail. " When I was shewn into the prison, Kirsty and James, and the whole o' them, were together. ' O Kirsty, woman i' said I, in great distress, ' could ye no hae keepit at hame while my back was turned ! Why hae ye brought the like o' this upon us? I'm sure ye kenned better! JVas the de- slruclion o llie machine and the slack i/ard no a warning loye!' " ' AVilliam," answered she, ' what is it that ye mean ? — is this a time to cast upon me yer low-minded suspicions? Had ye last nicht acted as a man, we micht hae got the laird to comply wi' our request ; but it is through you, and such as you, that everything in this unlucky country is gaun to destruction ; and sorry am I to say that ill o' ye — for a kind, a good, and a faithfu' husband hae ye been to me, William.' " ' O sir I' said James Patrick, coming fo.rward and tak- ing me by the hand, ' may I just beg that ye will tak my vespects to yer dochter Janet ; and, I hope, that whatever may be the issue o' this awkward affair, that she will in no way look down upon me, because I happen to be as a sort o' prisoner in a ja'l.' Jly heart rose to my mouth, and I hadna a word to say to either my wife or him. " ' Weel,' said I, as I left them, ' I must do the best I can to bring baith o' ye aff ; and, to accomplish it, the best lawyers in a' Scotland shall be employed.' " But to go on — at a very great expense, I, and the faither o' James Patrick, had employed the very principal advocates that went upon the Dumfries circuit ; and they tauld us that we had nacthing to fear, and that we might keep our- selves quite at case. ' I was glad that my son David hadna been seized and imprisoned, as weel as his mother and James Patrick, for he also had been ane o' the ringleaders in the breaking doon and burning o' the toll-bars, and in the assault upon the laird. But he escaped apprehension at the time, and I suppose they thought that they had enough in custody to answer the ends o' justice and the law, and, therefore, he was permitted to remain unmolested. " Now, sir, comes the most melancholy part o' my story. I had a quantity o' wool to deliver to the Yorkshire buyer, I hae already mentioned, upon a certain day. My son J>avid was to drive the carts wi' it to Annan. It was sair wark, and he had but little sleep for a fortnight thegether. It caused him to travel night and day, load after load. Now, I needna tell ye, that at that period the roads were literally bottomless. The horse just went plunge, plunging, and the cart jerking now to ae side and now to anotlier, or giein a shake suflicient to drive the life oot o' ony body that was in it. Now, the one wheel was on a hill, and the other in a hollow; or, again, baith were up to the axle-tree in mud. or tlie horse half swimming in water ! And yet people cried out against toll-bars ! But, as I hae been telling ye, my son David had driven wool to Annan for a fortnight, and he was sair worn out. The roads were in a dreadful state — worse than if, now-a-days, ye were to attempt to drive through a bog. " Ae night, when he was expected hame, his sister Janet and mysol' sat lang up waiting ujion him, and wonlering what could be keeping him, when a stranger rode uj) to the door, and asked if ' one 3Ir William W.-istle lived there I rejilied ' Yes !' And, Oh ! what think ye were his tid- ings, but that my name had been seen upon the carts, that the horses had stuck fast in the roads, and that my son David, who had fallen from the shafts, had either been killed, or dro'v\'ned among the horses' feet ! " I thought his brothers and sisters, and especially Janet, would have gane oot o' their judgnrent. As lor me, a' the trials I had had, were but as a drap in the bucket when compared wi' this ! " But, after I had mourned for a night, the worst was to come. Hoc was I to tell his poor imprisoned mother !- imprisoned as she was for opposing the very thing that would hae saved her son's life I " Next day I went to Dumfries ; but I declare that I nevei saw the liglit o' the sun hae sic a dismal appearance. The I fields appeared to me as if I saw them through a mist. Even distance wasna as it used to be. I was admitted into the prison, but I winna — oh no ! I canna repeat to ye the man ner in which I communicated the tidings to his mother ! It was too much for her then — it would he the same for me now ! for naething in the whole coorse o' my life ever shook me so much as the death o' my poor David. But I remem- ber o' saj-ing to her, and I declare to )'e upon the word o' a \ man, unthinkinglj' — ' O Kirsty, woman ! had we had toll- bars, David might still hae been living \' " ' William! William!' she cried, and fell upon my neck, ' will j'e kill me outright ?' And, for the first time in m_T life, I saw the tears gushing down her cheeks. Those tears wa.shed away the very remembrance o' the machine, and the burning o' the stacks. I pressed her to ni}' heart, and my tears mingled wi' hers. " I believe it was pai-tly through our laird, that baith Kirsty and James Patrick were liberated without being brought to a trial. Iler imprisonment, and the deatli o' our son, had wrought a gieat change upon ray wife ; and I think it was hardly three months after her being set at liberty that we were baith sent for to auld -John Neilson the bam- nian's, whose wife Peggy lay upon her dcath-Iicd. Wlien we approached her bedside, she raised herself upon her elbow, and said — ' The burning o' yer bam and stackyard has always been a mystery — hear the real truth from the \vords o' a dying and guilty woman. Yer machine had tliro\vn my husband out o' employment, and when yer wife there gied me back the pipe, a whuff o' A\hich I said would do her good, I let the burning dottle drap among the straw — nane o' ye observed it — ye were a' leaving the barn. Now, ye ken the cause — on my death-bed, I make the confession.' " I declare I thought my heart would hae louped out o' my body. I pressed my wife, against whom I had har- boured such vile suspicions, to my breast. She saw my | meaning — she read my feelings. " ' William,' said she, kindly, ' if ye hae onytliing on yer mind that yo wish to forget, so hae I ; let us baith ■ forget and forgie !' " I felt Kirsty's bosom heaving upon mine, and I was happy. " Within six months after this, James Patrick and out dochter Janet were manied ; and an en\'iable couple they then were, and such they are unto this day. And, as for my Kirsty, auld though she is, and though the sang says- * 1 wadna gie a button for her,' auld, I sav, as she is, and wi' a' her faults, I would gie a' the buttons upon my coat for her still, and a' the siller that evei was in my pouch into the bargain." ^^•^ qiontly have cause to say, tliat, as ilio tree ^revv, anil the biirk f.\j);ui(lcil, so (li trace left. I!ut (leorge JMoriliugton parteil witli Marion, ami went to n street called the Kiln Hill, in whi •}. there then was an inn, known liy die name of " TiiK Salmon." In it all (he ftssociales of his youth were assemhieil ; ami when he entered they rose sininltaneously, each olfering liis hand, and ex- claiming — " Ah ! George ! my dear fellow, how are you ?" They sat long, ami they drank deeply ; and, while the Bong, the story, the jest, or the argument went round, they lorgot how time and reason were Hying together. It was usual for such companies not to break up until they had vitnessed the election of the i\Iayor. The heads of several of the jiarty began to go round as well .as the glass ; and of this number was George Jlordiugtou. He was a youth of the most sober and temperate habits ; and before he had drank olf his third glass, he might have said, in the words of the song — " This is no me I" His very countiuance was ohanged ; his numner, which was, in general, backward and retiring, became bold ami boisterous. Instead of his wonted silence, he Was the chief orator of the company. He s])oke of things of wliicli he ought not to have spoken, and as glass succeed- ed glass, so did one act of folly succeed another. Son)e of the more sober of the company said, they " were sorry for poor iMordiugton — but his head could stand nothing; and," added they, " it is a pity, for he is an excellent follow." This, however, was only the sentiment of a part of them ; and, as he began to exhibit fantastic tricks, and to declaim with violent gestures upon all subjects, some said that he would make an excellent Miii/nr, and proposed that a cart should be procured. Against this proposal some of his ac- quaintances protested ; but the idea pleased his own disor- dered fancy, and as the madness of intoxication increased, he insisted that the bacchanalian honour should be conferred u{)on him. " Well done, George!" cried the more thoughtless of the party ; '• he is the king of good fellows, every inch of him \" So saying, they rushed into the street, bearing him upon tl'.eir shoulders; and amidst the shouts and laughter of men and boys, he was placed in a cart, his face rubbed over with soot, his hair bedaubed with flour, and a broomstick was placed in his hand as his rod of ortice. "Hurra! George Blordington is Mayor !" was the cry upon the streets; and followed by a noisy multitude, he was paraded round the village, and, in conformity with ancient custom, delivered a speech at every public-house and baker's door in the place. Old ami young leave their pillows, to " see the Mayor," OS they term it, and hasten to the door or «'indow, to wit- ness his procession as he is hurled along. There were many, who, as they perceived him, expressed regret to see (ieoige Alordington in such a situation, and said it would break his mother's heart. Hut, as they passed the door of Mr Wcatherly, a sudden cry was heard. It was a woman's scream of agony, and as t burst forth, the maddened shout of the multitude was liushed. It struck upon the car of George Mordington in the mid.st of his madness and degradation — it entered his heart. It was the cry of his betrothed JMarion. He struck his hand upon his brow, and fell back in tlio cart as if an arrow had entered his breast. Her voice had startled him, as from a trance, into a consciousness of his shame and folly. " He is di-ad !" cried the crowd — for he fell as if dead, and in a state of unconsciousness ho was conveyed to his (uother's house. The poor widow wept as she beheld lier i.'V turned into shame ; and as he opemd his eyes and began to I'aze va anllv aro\ind, his sister said unto him, but rather *.., .• >wtii.!i 'ban reproachfully — " Umtlier ! brother! who co'.iiil nave thouglit that you would have be n guilty of this f " A groan of anguish was his only reply. " Daughter, ' said his mother, " do not upbraid him ; he will feel anguish enciugli for the shame he has brought upon himself and on us, without our reproaches." He started to his feet as he heard her voice, he thrust his lingers in his hair, he gnashed his teeth together, ami how I- iug, as one in a paroxysm of insanity, exclaimeii — " What have I done ! 1 am lost — disgraced for ever !" " No, my sou ! no!" siid his mother; "you have acted foolishly — very fooli-hly; but, in time it will be forgotten." " Never ! never !" he answered ; " would that the earth would swallow me up ! I an> worse than a madman or a villain — I am ashamed of my existence !" They endeavoured to sootiie him; and, for a few liours, he forgot his shame in sleep — though not wholly, for his slum- ber was troubled, and in the mid.>tof it he groaned, clenched his hands, and grated his teeth together. The remend)ranc<' of his folly was stronger thin sleep. He aw(jke, and a sen- sation of horror awoke with him. The cxtravaganco and the madness of which he had been guilty in the nu)rning were, at lirst, only remembered as a disagreeable and con- fused dream, :vhich he wished to chase from his thoughts, ami was afraid to remember more vividly. But, as he saw the tears on the cheeks of his mother ami his sister, as they sat weeping by his bedside, all the absurdities in which he had been an actor, rushed painfully, if not distinctly, across his memory ; and he covered his face with his hands, ashamed to look upon the light, or on his kindred's face. He was sick and fevered, and his throat was parched, yet the sense of shame lay on his heart .so keenly, that he would ' not ask for a drop of water to cool his tongue. For five days he was contined to his bed ; and the physician who had been called in to attend him, dreaded an attack of brain fever. It was ordered that he should be kept calm ; but there was a troubled tire in his breast that burned and de- nied him rest. On the sixth day, he ventured to whisper something in his sister's ear regarding Marion. " Poor Marion!" she replied, "though she forgives you, her father forbids her to speak to you again, and has sent her to the north of Scotland, that she may not have an oppor- tunity of seeing you." He sat in agony and in silence for a few moments, and rising and taking his hat, walked feebly towards the door But, ere he had opened it, he turned back, and throwing himself upon his seat, cried — " I am ashamed for the sun- light to fall upon my face, or for the eyes of any one that I know, to look upon me." When the sun had set, and night began to fall grey upon the river, he again rose, and went towards the house of .Marion's father. " What want yc ?" said tlio old man angrily, as he en- tered ; "away, ye disgrace o' kith and kin, ami dinna let the shamefu shadow o' sic a ne'er-do-weel darken my door ! Away wl' ye ! Dinna come here — and let ae tell- ing be as good as a hundred — for daughter o' mine shall never speak to ye again !" " Yon will not," said George, " deal with me so harshly, because I have been guilty of one act of folly. They have a steady foot who never make a slip ; and, ashamed as I am of my comluct, it certainly has not been so disgraceful as never to he forgiven. " " I Iiave told ye once, and I tell ye again," cried the old man more wrath'fidly, " that my daughter shanna speak to ye while she breathes. I hope she has a spirit above it. It would he a fine story for folk to talk about, that she had m.irvicd a blackguard that was iMayor at Twcedraouth feast !" " I deserve your censure ;" returned George; •' but, surcljr there is notlii i - so heinous in what I have done, as to merit 3UU TALES OF THE BOEDERS. Ilic cpitlict vou ni.ply to me. I ackiiowlerlgo, nncl am nsliamcil of my folly ; what can 1 do more ? and I liave also suffered for it." " Ye acknowledge your folly !" exclaimed tlie fislierman ; "pray, sir, how could ye deny it .'' I saw it — the whole town saw it — my poor daughter was a witness o' it ; and yet ye have the impudence to stand there hefore me and say ye acknowledge it. And meikle mends it makes to say ye are sorry for it. I suppose, sir, the very murderer is soiTy for his crime when he stands condemned before the judge ; liut his soiTOw, I reckon, is but a poor reason why he should be pardoned ! Away wi' ye, I say ! — ye shall find no ad- mission here. At ony rate, I have taken good care to have my silly bairn out o' yer reach, and tliat she may be out o' the way o' the disgrace and the scandal tliat ye have brought ijpon us." So saying, the speaker rudely closed the door in the face of his visiter. George JMordington returned to his mother's house, gliding silcntlv, as a ghost is said to move ; for his cheek burned lest any one should look upon his face. On the following day, he prepared to set out for Gateshead ; but, liefore he went, he placed the following letter, addressed to Slarion AVeathcrly, into the hands of his sister, and which she was to give to her on her return : — "JIarion — 1 cannot now call you my Marion — I have disgraced you, I have dishonoured mj-self. Your advice, which I deemed unnecessary, v.-as not only forgotten, but you know how it was insulted. I know you must despise me ; and I blame you not — you have a right to do so. I Iiave made myself conteniptilde in your eyes, but not more contemptible than ni}' conduct has rendered me in my own. 1 blush to think of you, and j-our excellence renders my folly more despicable Call it madness — call it what you will — for it was the infatuation, the frenz}-, the insanity of an hour. Yet, dear ]\Iarion, by all the hours and scenes of happiness that are gone by, all that we have known to- gether, and that we might yet know, cast nic not off for ever ! J lad I been familiar with the nightly debauch, my degrada- tion would have been less, my conduct not so extravagant. Think of me as one degraded by folly, but not abandoned to it. I have sinned — and that deeply; but my repentance is as bitter as my crime was ridiculous. Its remembrance chokes me. Forgive me, Marion. I vrnia the words, but I could not utter them, for I find that I could not stand in your pi'csence, and support the weight of the debasement which presses upon me as a galling load. Your father has treated me cruelly — I would say that he has insulted me, if it were possible to insult one who has so insulted himself. 1 he only apology I can, or should offer for the part I have acted, ought to be, and must be, found in my future conduct. It is on this ground only that I ask and hojjo for your forgiveness." So ran his letter ; and having delivered it to his sister, under tlic promise that it should be given to JIarion imme- diately on her return, he left his mother's bouse, and took Ids journey towarels Gatesliead. On aiTiving at the oiliee of his employers, tliey looked upon him as though they knew him not, and be jierccived that the place at the desk, v.'hich he had formerly occupied, was filled hy another; for there the tale of his follies had already reached : so true is it, that evil rideth upon wings which outstrip the wind. His late master sent one of the junior clerks to inform him that he had no farther occasion for his services. George stood as if a thunderbolt had smitten him ; and he went forth disconsolate, and liegan to v.-ander towards the South Shields, while the thought haunted liim what he should do, and to whom he should apply for assistance. IFe had ruined his character — he was without friend.s, almost without money, and he wandered in wrctch- ness, the martyr of his own folly. He thought of his mo- ther, of his sister, and of the f^air IMarion, and wept ; for, bo net only had drawn down mis'TV unoii his own head but he had made them miserable also. lie took up lus lodgings in a mean public-house, by the side of the river, anel went round the public offices in Newcastle and Shields, seeking for employment, but without success. In all of them he was known ; in each, the tale of bis indiscretion seemed to have been heard, for his entrance was greeted with a smile. In a short time, he began to be in want ; and, like the prodigal, he would have " arisen and gone unto his father" — but he had no fath.^r's roof to receive him — no home, save the lowly habitation of his widowpd motlier — and he found himself left as an outcast on the earth In hi.' despair he applied to the captain of a vessel which was about to sail for America. During his father's lifetime, lie had made some voyages with him, and obtained a knowledge of a seamart's duty. The skipper of the American trader also, to whom he applied, having known him when a clerk in the merchant's office at Gateshead, agreed to take hire on board, and give him, as he eddied it, a trial. Georgt Mordington, accordingly, sailed for America, and several years passed and his mother heard nothing concerning him. The letter which he had left with his sister for JIarion, had been delivered to her, and as she read it she wept, and her lieart whimpered forgiveness. But days, months, and years diagged their slow course along, and no one heard tid- ings of him. She began to feel that, although she bad for- given him, he had forgotten her. Her father said, she " waf weel quit o' the neer-do-woel — that lie had always deter- mined that he should not speak to her again, and he was- glad that he had not attempted it." But his poor mother mourned for him as a stricken d<.v( that is robbed of its young; the tears fell upon her pillow a midnight, as she wept for her son, her only son, the child r) her heart and hopes. Anxious and fruitless were her in quiries after him. As the mist of morning vani-1 etti, .so had he departed from her sight ; and, like it, when the sun meltelh it away, he was not. Jfrs JMordington had a brother who had been many years in India, and having returned to Britain, he took up his residence in Ayrshire. Being a widower, and without chil- dren, he sent for his sister and her daughter to reside with him. Tlicy remained as the inmates of his roof for more than ten years, and during that period she heard nothing ol her lost son. But her brother, who was now an old man, died, leaving to her his property ; and, regarding the place where her husband's bones lay as her home, she returned lo Tweedmouth. There, however, she had not been long, when disease fell, as a withering blight, on the cheeks of her remaining child. Year followed year, and, as the leaves droppeel from the trees, her daughter seemed ready to drop into the grave. Over her face, consumption's fitful raiRbow spread its beautiful but deadly streaks ; and, thougli t!i« widow now possessed afiluence, she knew not happiness. Her son was not, and her fair daughter was withering be- fore her, as a flower on which the cankerworm had fi.xcd its teeth. Yet, long the maiden lingered, until her aged mother almost hoped that they would go down unto the grave together. Eighteen years ban passed since the festival which had proved fatal to the early jiromise and the fond prosjiects of George Alordiiigton. jiargaret's day hael again come round, and the neighbours of the widow, with their children and friends around them, held a hediilay. A slow and unwieldy vehicle, which was then the only land conveyance belween Berwick and London, stojiped in the village. A sun-lm:nt stranger alighted from it, and as he left the coach, a young maiden crossed his path. She seemed to be seventeen oi eighteen years of age, and was dressed in a mourning-gown, wilh a white sarcenet hood over licr jiead, being in tlic dress of one who w,is iinTling guests to a funeral. " Jlaiden," said the stranger, accosting hor ' can visi: intorni ■;;,': where ]\lrs i\Ior(l his hand and struck upon the door — it was oiien<'d by a wom-"- -Irosi^orl in (he garb of mourning, and whose years might bo described as being between youth : nd middle age. " ])o I dream ! ' he exclai'men, starling back .ns Iio beheld her — " I am jiunished ! Yes, I am iio\v |mnislied hevond tlie measure of my crime! Clarion, I am George Mording- ton !" She clasjied her handi together, a wild .shriek escaped .itr lips, and she fell back as irangers raised Alarion and conveyed her from the house. Sli(,' bad hjng believed George Jlordinglon, the object of her early alfections, was with the dead ; and, under this eonyic- tion, and in obedience to her father's command, she had given her h:ind to another. The maiden whom the betrothed husband of her youth had met on alighting from the coach \v,is her daughter, and the features of the girl then were as the mother's bad been when they last parted. (leorge Jlordlngton accompanied his sister's corpse, as chief mourner, to the grave. The friends of his boyhood had firgotten the tale of his folly; but its consequences gnawed with fiercer agony in his heart, than -ivhen he was first ashamed to behold bis own face in a glass because of it. On the following day, it Avas stated that Jlarion was not expected to live, and she reijucsted to speak with him before she died, lie approached her bedside — she stretched her hand towards him. " I'^orgive me, (ieorge," she cried ; " 1 knew not that yon yet lived. I am the wife of one who ]i;is long deserted me — my heart has long been broken, and yovir ajipearancc h.is severed the last cord that linked me "ilh existence. But 1 leave behind me a daughter; vihen I am gone there will be no ji.irent to provide for her, no father whoso roof will shelter or hand defend her. As you once loved me, protect my poor child." " 1 will ! I will !" he exclaimed. " Farewell, i\Iari')n !" And ho rushed from the liouse. She lingered for a few weeks, and he followed her co the grave, as he had done his sister. Yet the remembrance of his early shame still haunted him, and ho im.agined that every eye in the place of his birth looked on him with deri- rion. lie garc liis mother's furniture in presents to her neighbours; and with her and the daughter of ]\Iarion, ]iro- teeded to London. The widow lived for a few years, and at her ileatli, be bei|ueathed, upon Jic d.iuglilerof his adop- tion, all that bis niolher jiosscsscil. " J^laiden," he .said, " I cannot look njion thy faep, hut it reminds me of the hapiiiness I have lost, of the misery I have brought on mj-self and upon others. Child of iiiy iMarion, farewell ! I leave you, it not rich, above want ; be virtuous as your mother was." And, again crying, " J''are- well !" he left her; Jind (ieorge iMordington was no more heard of by any who bad known him. I'.ut, after the l.ipse of many years, there .-ipiicired, in an American iiews]>aper, the following jiaragraph : — " Died, at Wa.sliingltin, in the 7'^l'' .vear of hi< age, ! George iMordington, I''.si|, a native of I'erwiek-ujion-TweeJ, I patriotic senator, ami an upright judge." rOLV\^VRTIl ON THE GIIEEN, I'kiiadvknthhf. there are few of our readers who have not beard of "rolwarlh on the Green," and the "rolw.irth Thorn." The song hearing the former title is certainly fcmniled upon one of the most pojjular traditions on the Uorders. Since the commencement of this publication, we have been many times requested to write n tale ujion the subject, and not less than thrice from dilTercnt quarters within the last seven days; and, as we are at all times anxious to meet the wishes of our readers, we sli.-dl now endeavour to fulfil the request which has been made to us. There arc none to whom the traditions of other days are not interesting. I'hey save from oblivion the memory, tlie deeds, and the manners of our fathers. No nation is so sunk in barbarity as to disregard them ; the civilized liluro- pean, and the Indian savage, alike cherish them ; and the poets of every land have wed them with song. Yet, no- where are traditions more general or more interesting than upon the Borders. Every grey ruin has its tale of wonder and of war. The solitary cairn on the hillsiile, speaks of one who died for religion, or for liberty, or belike for both. The very schoolbo}' passes it with reverence, and can tell the history of hiin whoso memory it perpetuates. The hill on which it stands is a monument of daring deeds, where the sword was raised against oppression, and where heroes slccj). Eveiy castle bath its legends, its tales of terror and of blood, " of gohlin, ghost, or fiiry." The mountain glen, too, hath its records of love and war — there history has let fall its romantic fragments, and the hills enclose them. The forest trees \vliisper of the past ; and, beneath the shadow of their branches, the silent spirit of other years seems to sleep. The ancient cottage, also, hath its traditions, and rccouuts " Tlie short rjnd simple .innnls of the poor." Every fimily liath its legends, which record to posterity the actions of their aiiceslors, when the sword was law, and even the payment of rent upon the Borders was a thing which no man understood ; but, as Sir Walter Scott saith, " all that the landlord could gain from those residing upon his estate, was their personal service in brittle, their assistance in labouring the land retained in liis natural possession, some petty quit-rents of a nature resembling the feudal casnalities, and perhaps a share in the spoil which tliey .acquired by rajiine." J\Iany of those traditions are calcu- lated to melt the maiden's heart, to till ago with enthusiasn". and youth with love of country. — But to our story. In the year 1470, John Sinclair of Ilerdm.mstime, in Hast Lothian, who was also Lord of Kimmergbame and Polwarlh, dying \\ ithout male i.ssue, the estate of Kiinmer- gliame descended to his daughter iMarion, and that of Pol- wartli to her sister iMargaret. His heir-male was his bn. i iher Sir ^\'ilJianl .Siuchiir, to whom the estate of llerdman- 302 TALES OF THE BORDERS. itono fell. Sir William, as the uncle of the co-heiresses, though not appointed as their guardian by their father, for they were both well nigh of woman's estate when he died, craftily took upon himsolf that duty. lie whispered to tliem that their estates were not managed as they ought to pe — that their bondmen did not perform the duty required of them — that those they had set ovei their grounds as stewards, did not render them a faithful account of their stewardsliip. He insinuated a thousand suspicions into their voung minds, until their affairs gradually fell into his hands, and he at length succeeded in gaining the entire manage- ment of their estates; and he now required only to have the disposal of their personal freedom. JMen of power in those days were not very scrupulous as to the means which they employed to obtain their object ; lie who liad a score of retainers, weighed the scales of life and death in his hands. Nevertheless, aware of the rank which his nieces held in the estimation of his country. Sir William knew that it would not be safe to venture upon making them prisoners by open violence. lie, therefore, courteously invited tliem to his house at Herdmanstone, where he stated that the gayest and the proudest company in broad Scotland would be present to delight them. Marion, who was fond of amusements, was overjoyed at the invitation ; but her sister Margaret, who was of a graver disposition, said^ " Well, sister, I like not our uncle's kindness — somethin ; sinful seems to laugh in his looks ; the very movement of his lips bespeaks more than it reveals ; confide in mc, dear sister, and distrust him. When I was but a child, playing around our mother's knee, I have heard her say unto my father — ' Ah, John ! I like not your brother ; there is a cunning in his looks, in his very words ; he cannot meet von with the straightforward gaze of an lionest man ; and methinks he looks upon me as though he distrusted and bated me ; yea, I have often thought as though he were plotting evil against me.' So our mother was wont to say; and my father would reply — ' Dear Elizabeth, think not so cruelly of one who is so near and dear to me; trust me, tliat he loves you and yours.' ' It may be so,' she would reply, ' but there is that in lu's manner which I cannot over- come.' Then our father would remain silent fop a time, and add — ' Well, there is a want of frankness in Sir William A'hich becomes not a brother. " Lull your suspicions, my demure sister," the liglit- hcarted Jlarion replied; " a thousand times liave I heard dim say that no one but the boldest baron in all Scotland should wed his niece, Jlarion." " And ho said truly," replied Margaret ; " for, if he have us once within his power, not even the boldest knight in Scotland will be able to receive our hands, unless he sue for it with gallant bowmen at his back, and the unsheathed sword to enforce his suit." " Oh, then, sister," subjoined Jlarion, " I suppose you have a knight at hand who uould delight in sucli handy- work ; for is not Sir Patrick Hume of Wedderburn reputed CO be the most valorous knight upon the Borders, and withal the humble worshipper of fair Margaret Sinclair of Pol- warth." And as the maiden spoke she laughed, and tapped her sister good-naturedly upon the cheek. JMargaret blushed, 3nd playfully replied — " Well, sister, is there no valorous knight at Wedderburn but Sir Patrick .'' What think ye of George Hnme ?" " No more of this," cried Marion ; " let us accept our uncle's invitation, apd mjngle with the gay compauv he has i;ivited to meet us." " If you will have it so, let it be so," replied JIaigaret ; but, trust ijie, I fear that good will not come of it." (In th.e following day they set out upon their journey to- wards Herdmanstone, accnnqianied with only two men-ser- vitnts. Their uuc.e received them with a shew of cordial friendship; out the guests wnum thry exp''cted to meet, ihej saw not, and they had been but a few minntes beneath his roof, when they found themselves prisoners, secured by gratings, bolts, and bars. On discovering the situation into which they had been entrapped, Marion wept aloud, and accused herself of being the unwitting author of her sister's captivity. " F'ear not," said Blargaret ; " our uncle is a stern man he is a man of blood ; but there are as strong hands as his, that will be raised to deliver tne sisters of Kimmerghame and Polwarth, when their captivity becomes known." " But how will it be known ?" asked Marion ; " for who knows that we are liere .''" " Let us trust to Him who is the orphan's father," replied her sister, " and leave all to His good providence." " Amen," said the other ; but she sobbed bitterly as she spok 8. O the second day of their imprisonment, their uncle en tera the apartment where they were confined. " Wcel, maidens," said he sternly, "how like ye your abode at Herdmanstone .'' I have observed the slightfu' een witb which baith o' you have looked upon your uncle; and now that ye are in my power, ye shall repent the airs o disdain that ye hae taken upon you. It becomes nae iha blood o' Polwarths to assume a superiority over the house o' Sinclair. So choose ye — there are twa cousins who are not very auld, but they're growing ; ve shall hae your choice to marry them, or the deejiest dungeon in Herdmanstone shall be your doom. Your destiny is placed in your own hands — decide it as ye will ; but remember that it is a Sinclair that never broke his word, that wags the finger o' fate over your heads. Eight days ! eight days ! remember !" he re- peated, and left them. " Now, you will despise me, Jfargarct," said Marion, " for my maiden ambition has led us into this trouble ; yet will I rather be an inmate in our uncle's dungeon, than fe the wife of the bov-husbrind he would assign mc. Sister, will you not upbraid me.'" " Upbraid you !" said the calm and gentle Margaret , " stern as is our uncle, deadly as is his wrath, I fear him not. The other day you spoke to me jeeringly of Sir Patrick Home — in the same strain I answered you respect- ing his brother George. Eight days will not pass until Sir Patrick miss me from Polwarth, and powerful as my uncle may be, bold and desperate as he is, I know that one stone of Ilerdmanstone Castle will not be left standing upon an- other till we are freed." You have a brave heart, sister," said Marion, but it is small comfort to me, who must look upon myself as the author of this disaster. And how think ye that Sir Patrick or his brother George (if ye will speak o' him) are to hear of our confinement ? Wot ye not, that they know not where we are ; or if they should know, they will not aj)- prehend that evil could befal us in the house of our relative.'" "I believe, Marion," answered JIargaret, " that witliin the eight days «hich our uncle has named, we shall either be at liberty, or have ceased to live. It is our lives that he seeks, not that we should be the wives of his sons; rather than be so wed, I will die — so will you. But, if we should die, our deaths would not be unavenged. He would neither enjoy our estates, nor the triumph of his guilt. Ve have heard the names of Patrick and George Hume of Wedder- burn spoken of as soiinds of terror upon the Borders — their swords have ayeng>^d the injured, and released the captive. iMarion ! they wil. avenge our wrongs — dear sister, be not afraid." It was about daybreak on the fourth day after their im- prisonment, that a musician, who played upon the Union or Northumbrian pipe of those days, a]iproached beneath the window of their apartment, aiul softly nlayini: on air, accom- panied it \yith his voice, as follows : — TALES OF THE BORDERS, 303 IWy hp:irt Is divUlrd betwocn them, 1 diiiiu kon wliich 1 vvail ti:te ; Kif^lit willing uiy liciirt 1 ivad ^ion tiicm-« liiil luiw c:iii 1 gie it to Im-ul' ? Tln-n''8 ^tl';;'/y, a fairer or hrttiT I'm eel tain lliei'e eoiililiia \eeel be; l)iinifuutiilei'M tlie tirst time I met her, Wliat was tjweet Mariuu lu uie I Yet Marion U gentle and bonny 1 iilied her ere IMe^gy I saw, And tliey say It U sint'u' tur onj Man upon earth to like twa. My heart it is rufji^'d and lortnented, I'd live wi' or die for them haith ; I*ve done what I've o^len repented, To baith 1 have plighted my aitb. And oft wlien I'm v/alkini; with Meppy, I'll aay '' Dear Marion," and start ; While fearfu' she'll say, " Weel, I ken yo Ilae ilhers mair dear to your heart." W.is ever a man *»»e anifounded ? 1 dinna ken wh^t will be dune, Baith sidti; o' my bosom are woundod, And they'll Le.the death o' me sune. Ilark !" said Marion, as she listened to tlie strain of the Minstri'l; " it is the song of the Egyptian tliief, Joliiiny Kaa. Mind ye since he sang it beneath our window at Kimmer- ghime?" 1 remember it weel," replied BFargaret ; "but dinna ca 11 him tliief, sister ; for, be Julmny a king or no a king, he is one that King James is glad to lift his bonnet to ; and I and sure that he means weel to us at present. Wheesht ye, Jl arion, and I will whisper to him a low chatint over the wii'Qow." And, in a low voice, she sung — Oh, saw ye my laddie comin , Johnny f Oh, saw ye my laddie comin' ? If ye've no seen liim, tell him frae me, That I'm a woefu woman. We here are sisters twa, Johnny, Confined within this tower ; And ilka time the sun gaes do;vQ It points to our death hour. • I heard it rumoured, gentle maiden," said the gipsy, pazing eagerly towards the window from whence they looked, " that no good was intended ye in this place ; and though it be not in the power of Johnny Faa to bring to ye the assist- ance of his own men, yet it strikes me there is ane, if no Iwa, maidens, that 1 could bring to your rescue, and that wad make a clap o' thunder wring ihroui^h the deepest cell in Herdmanstone." " Thank ye, Johnny," replied Margaret ; " ye're kind — ye're very kind ; and if ve wad carry a bit scrap o' paper to AVedderburn Castle, greatly would ye aid a distressed damsel." " I thank ye, my doo, for relying on the word and pro- mise o' John, king and lord o' Little Egypt. Little do they ken me, and less is their knowledge o' our race, who think that we would look upon those who are wronged without seeing them righted. How I heard of your imprisonment or the wrong intended ye, never fash your thumb ; though a bird walfcti it in my lugs wi' its wings, though it chirped it in them as it chirmed past me, it is enough that I ken o' your wrongs, and that 1 will assist ye. Trust me maidens." '' I will trust ye," answered Margaret. "Dinna trust him, sister," said Marion; "he may be some Bpy of our uncle's." " Of being a spy," cried the other, " I dinna believe him capable. Stop, Johnny, or king, or w hatever ye be, ' she added, " and 1 will throw ye a word or two to carry to Sir Patiick Hume of W'eddcrhurn." She addressed to him a few words, and threw the piper whiih contaiiieil tliein into the hands of tlie gijisy. " lile.ss ye for your contideiice, my Ijoiiiiy lassie !" said Johnny Faa ; " and bi'f(/ro the sun gai' down. Sir Patrick Hume sliall ken lliat there is aiic that likes him pining in a ca])live's jnison, wi' none but uiie that his brother likes to bear her coi:i|v,imv." 'J'he gipsy king was mounted on an active pony,andalthf)Ugh it was williiiiit a saddle, and reined only by u hempen briilal, he dashed off with it, at the pace of a fleet racer, and directed his course towards the Lammermoors. It was not noon when he arrived at the Castle of Wed- derburn. The porter at the g;ite retreated in terror as he beheld him, for the name of the Faa king had become terri- ble on the Borders, ami even the king had been glad to grant him terms on his own choosing. On being admitted to tl.i; presence of the knight — " What is it, ye vagrant loon," asked Sir Patrick, " that brings ye to venture within the roof o' honest men ?" " Honest!" said the gipsy — "ha! ha! ha! I dare say your honesty and mine is miickle about a par. Between us two it is, take who can. Ye hae the bit land, Sir Patrick, but ye liavena a stronger or a more cunning hand, nor yet a sharper sword than the lord o' Little Egypt. Therefore, speak at evens with me, lest ye rue it." " And wherefore should I speak at evens," answered Hume, '■ with the like o' you, who are at best but the king o' gaberlunzie men." " The mischief light on ye!" said the gipsy; " ye have pro- voked me sair, and 1 have tholed wi' your slights and taunt- ing; but try me not wi' another word, lest ye rue it. Sir Patrick Uume, and your brother nie it, and every Hume o" the house o' Wedderburn shall be brought to cry dool, for refusing to listen to the words o' Johnny Faa." "And what wad ye say if ye had your will, ye braggart knave .''" cried the knight. " Merely," retorted the gipsy, " that there is a bonny lassie, ane who is owre guid to be the bride o' sae uncivil an individual as yoursel', now lying in durance, wi' death or perpetual imprisonment before her, while ye havena the courage to lift your hand to her rescue." •• Of whom speak ye ?" vociferated the laird of Wedder burn. '' Who,' rejoined the gipsy, slily, " is nearest to your heart.'' — who nearest to your door'' Have you seen her within these four days?" " What!" exclaimed Sir Patrick, "speak ye of mv !Mar- garet 't" " Of whom does your heart tell you that I speak ?" said Faa. " It is then to her that ye allude?" cried Sir Patrick. " Ay, it is to her," was the reply ; " and «hat knight are ye that would remain here idly within your castle, while death threatens the maiden of your love" ? " Pardon me, stranger," said Sir Patrick; "tell me where she is." " Ye asked me to pardon ye now," answered the gipsy proudly ; "^e knew me before, when the insult was offered, ye know me still. It is not because ye bear a name power- ful in arms, nor yet that I have heard of your deeds of war that I come to you ; but it is because of the maiden who loves you as the Mayfly does the summer sun. ilargaret Sinclair and her sister are the prisoners of their uncle, Sir William Sinclair of Herdmanstone. He has looked with aa eye of covetousnc.^s upon their estates — be longs to possess them ; and, if they be not yielded to him, the life of the fair owners now in his power must pay the forfeit." The knight clasped the hand of the gipsy. " Thank yc, thank ye," he cried ; " 1 will reward ye for this act of kicti- ness." " You reward me !" shouted the gipsy king, disdainfully, oOl. TALES OF THE BORDERS. " tliiiik _vo llint M-licn tlie liinu; of Little Kgypt dues an act] nf htimaiiitv <'i" generosity, l;e is to be rewarded for it hy a Scottish knight ! Away with ye, man ! I spnrn yoiir tl]anks ! I am as far above them as the moon is above tlie "low- worm that glimmtrs on the ground — ay, as the sun above the ftetid matter from which it draws life. Know, then, that ^Margaret Sinclair and her sister will die unless ve have courage to release them, and that before another Sabbath sl'.ine a holiday to you." VVedderbura held his hand in thankfulness- " Forgive me, forgive me," he cried ; " 1 have spoken unjustly to one that has a soul within him, and who has sympathised for those in whom my happiness is bound up. Again, I say, forgive me." " Ye are forgiven," said the Faa ; " and, if assistance be needed in tlie hour of peril, ye shall find willing hands ready to help ye, though ye deserve it nut." So saying, the Faa beckoned his hand, and withdrew from tlie presence of Hume. Sir Patrick bore the tidings in- tanlly to his brother ; and, within two hours, a hundred of their retainers stood armed around Wedderburn Castle. " To Ilerdnianstone !" was the cry ; " and the rescue of the lady love of the Lord of AV^edderburn !" " Ay, and for Marion, the maid of Kimmerghame !" cried George, the brother of Sir Patrick ; " and the Sinclairs shall veur stout bucklers and bells to boot, that this sword pierce not." TiiG ])arty being marshalled, they took their way across the Lammermoor.^ with the brothers Sir Patrick and George If'jme at their head. It was shortly after daybreak when they appeared before Ilerdnianstone Castle ; and the Lady JMargaret was the first to perceive their approach. " Sister !" she cried ; "' see ! see ! aid is at hand — the ban- ner of the Humes is waving over the fields of Herdman- stone." " Ye dream, sister !" said Jfarion, starting from her couch. " Nav, I dream not," retorted IMargartt. " Arise ; tlirougli the grey light I perceive the plume of Sir Patrick Hume, and the gay jack which my sister wroug-ht for his brotlier." JMarion sprang forward to the window where her sister stood ; they thrust their hands from the window, to encou- rage their deliverers to the rescue, while Sir Patrick and his brother answered them back, crying — " We come ! we come ! The haughty and cruel fc'inelair shall repent in blood." The trumpets of the Humes sounded ; and, as if prepared for the approaching conflict, within a few minutes, more than fifty retainers of Sir William Sinclair were in arms. Igno- rant of the number of their foes, they rushed foith to meet tiieni, hand to hand, and sword to sword. Long the strife was desperate — it was even doubtful ; but, at length, supe- riority of numbers, on the part of the Humes, prevailed ; the retainers of Sir William were routed in all directions, and his castle was assailed, even to its threshold. " To the rescue of the fair maidens !" shouted the Humes. Indepen- dent of the immediate retainers of Sir William Sinclair, however, his neighbours came to his aid, and, although they were, at first, as two to one, the conflict had not lasted long » hen the Humes became the weaker party. The battle raged keenly — swords were broken in the grasp of their owners — the strong war-horse kicked upon the ground, in the agony of death, indenting the earth with its hoofs as it died, leaving the impression of its agony — their wounded men grappled with, and reviled each other, as though they Had been foreigners or aliens — spears were broken, and sliields clanked against each other— while the war-shout and the dying groan mingled togetlier. Victory seemed still to be doubtful ; fur, though the Humes fought bravely, and their le;iders led them on as with the heroism of despair, yet every oiiaute the nundiers of their adversaiits increased, while theirs, if the e.\press!on might be used, became te.ver and more few. Yi t there were two spectators of the conflict who beheld it with feelings that may not, thut cannot be described. Now tlie one beheld the plume which she had adorned for her be- trothed husband, seveied by the sword of an enemy ; while the other saw the gay jerkin, which she had weaved for hers, laniished with blood. They perceived, also, what we might term the ebbing and the flow'ng of the deadly feud — the retreating and the driving back ; and they were spectators also of the wounded, the dying, and the dead. They saw the party, in whom their hopes were fixed, gradually over- powered — they beheld them fall back beneath the swords or their opponents, disputing inch by inch as they retired, and their hearts fell within them. When hope, fear, and anxiety were wrought to their highest point of endurance, and the party in whom their trust lay seemed to be vanipiished, and were driven back, at that period, Johnny Faa, and a uunibei of his followers, rushed to their succour. " Hurra !" exclaimed the wanderer, "for tne braw lasse? o' Polwarth and Kimmerghame ! Fight, ye Humes ! fight ! There is a prize before ye uortliy a clour on tlie crown, or even a stab through the brisket." The approach of the Faa king turned the tide of victory, and his followers shouted — " The bonny lasses o' Polwarth and Kimmerghame shall be fiee !" " P'or ever, ay, and a day after it," cried Sir William, "shall the man inherit a cow's mailing, and a cow to bot-t, upon the lands o' Ilerdnianstone, who this day brings me upon his sword the head o' one o the birkies o' Wedderburn." Sir William, however, became a suppliant for mercy b(n'.ath the red sword of Patrick Hume ; and his life being granted, the Sinclairs gave their arms into the hands of their opponents. The young brothers each rushed into the house, to the rescue of the c;iptive damsels ; and JIargaret and Marion each fell upon the neck of the man she loved. On arriving at Pohvaitli,tliey were met by the glad villagers, with whom the fair ladies joined hands, and they danced together in joy around a thorn tree, upon the village green. In a fe\7 weeks, each of the maidens gave her hand to her deliverer — INIargaret to Sir Patrick, andlMarion to his brother George. On their marriage-day, the dance around the thorn upon the green was resumed, and a festive crowd trip- ped joyously around it, blessing the bride of Polwarth and her fair sister, JMarion of Kimmerghame; and the music to which they that day danced, proceeded from the pijies of king Johnny Faa, who, with half a dozen of his people, sat each witli a pair of union pipes beneath his arm, and dis- coursing " most eloquent music," without " fee, favour, or re- ward," save that they were partakers of the good things which were that day plentifully ciiculated upon Polwarth green. In concluding this account of the co-heiresses of Polwarth and Kimmerghame, it is only necessary to add that, from liei union with Hume of Wedderburn, the fair Margaret becaniR the progenitor of the future Earls of Marchn;ont. W I 1. S O N ' S 3l)t!Sfotnfnl(, arrnUiltoMAVi), anD JJm.ijin.tttbc TALES OF THE BORDERS BILL STANLEY; on A SAILOR'S STORY IIkadkr, If thou hast never visited the Fern Isles, but in- tendcst to visit them, thou hast a pleasure in reserve — a positive, (lownrif;ht, profitable pleasure — profitable as regards the health of the body, for a trip upon the sea makes the blood feel ten years younger, and dance in the veins as merrily as the waves around us ; and profitable also to the mind, by filling it with fresh objects for wonder and contem- plation ; and it is a fact veiy generally overlooked, that the poor jaded mind stands as much in need of new objects to work upon, as its plebeian neighbour, the body, stands in need of rest or change of diet. It is a matter of small con- sequence, whether you go in a yacht or in a steamer ; in the former you will have as much pleasure, in the latter more punctuality. But it is a matter of much consequence what wrft of company you have on uoard — in a word, what ma- terials your fellow-voyagers are made of. If they be all your exceedingly good-natured sort of people — people bowed down with politeness f.nd a desii-e to please — you won't be half an hour at sea till you find them dead as uncorked small beer that has stood an hour in the sun, or insipid as rnilk and water. I had as lief dine upon dried veal as be mewevrought hard to bring him up, while a boy, he had contrived to get knowledge and book-learning enough to have been made commodoru of a college. I may here tell you too, that old l);mvers ba4 30G TALES OF THE BORDERS. a driiiglitcr called Slary — one or tl:e nest and prettiest gins on all Tyneside. Blie was Bill's consort on all occasions ; and they were true to each other as a needle is to the Pole. Jack and he were friends and shipmates and heing sitting together — " ' I say, Bill,' said his comrade, ' as wu are to sail upon along voynge to-morrow, what say you for a run up to New- castle to the theatre to-night.? You shall take Polly Danvers, and I shall take my old woman.' For Jack was married. " ' It is of no use thinking of it,' answered he ; 'I am brouglit up here as though it were my last mooring.' ' ' Whew! whew!' whistled the other — 'with pretty Polly for a chain cahle. But I don't ask you to part com- pany with each other. So let us make ready and start.' " ' No,' added Stanley; ' the hest play and the hest actors in the world, would be to me to-night like a land-liihber sitting smiling and piping upon a flute on the sea-banks, while I was being dashed to pieces by the breakers under his feet. " ' What are you drifting at. Bill ? said Jenkins ; your upper works seem to have hoisted a moon-raker.' " ' I am unhappy. Jack,' said he, earnestly, ' and the cause presses like lead upon my heart. It throbs like fire within my forehead. For more than twenty years I have been tossed about as a helmless vessel, without compass or reckoning. It is hard. Jack, that I can't mention my mother's name, hut the blush upon my cheek must dry up the tear that falls for her memory. Three months ago, as you know, I came home, with the earnings of a two years' voyage in my pocket, and I found shipmate ! when I expected to have flung my savings into my mother's lap, I found her dying in a miserable garret, with scarce a blanket to cover her ! She had been long ill ; and the rich old rascal called Wates (who came to this part of the country some years ngo) seized all hut the straw on which she lay for his rent. I thought my heart had burst as I flung myself upon the ground by her side. A mist came over my eyes. I neither knew what I saw nor heard. I felt her cold arms clinging round my neck. She spoke — she told me my father's name! Comrade ! it was the first time I had heard it ! The word father pierced my heart like a dagger, and, in my agony, I knew not what she said. I started, I entreated her to re- peat it again 1 But my mother was silent ! — she was dead ! — the arms of a corpse were fastened round my neck I With the breath which uttered the name she had not spoken for more than twenty years, her spirit fled — and I — I cannot remember it." " ' Vast thc-e, Bill !' cried Jack, wiping a tear from his eyes ; ' that ir. tragedy enough without going to the play for it. But, for the sake of Jlary Danvers, the prettiest girl on Tyneside, (not even excepting my old woman,) cheer up, my lad !' " ' If that should cheer me,' said he, ' I believe it is the principal cause why I am sad to-day.' " ' Wh w then," said Jack, ' don't you take an ex.ample by me, and run your frigate to church at once } You will find a plain gold ring is a precious fast anchor. " ' But what,' replied Stanley, ' if the old commodore, her father, won"t allow me to take her in tow ?' " ' He won't !' cried Jenkins — 'that's a goodun ! Old dad Danvers won't allow you to splice with her I What's his reason ? I'm sure he can't say but you are as sober as the chief judge of the admiralty. " ' To-night,' replied Stanley, in a tone of agitation, he found her in my compan}', and called, or rather dragged her away ; and, as they went, I heard him upbraid her bit- terly, and ask if the meanness of her spirit would permit her to throw herself away upon upon' William be- came more agitated, the words he had to utter seemed to Stick in his throat ; and his friend Jenkins exclaimed — Upon a better man than ever he was in his life! But what did he say. Bill — uj)on what was she going to throw herself away .'' " ' Upon a beggar's nameless oaslard! he said,' groaned poor Stanley, striking his hand upon his brow. "'What d'ye say?" cried Jenkins, clenching his fist; ' had the old fellow's ribs not been removed otf the first letter, this hand had shivered them ! Flesh and blood, Stan- ley, how did ye endure it t' " ' I started to my feet,' said he ; ' my teeth grated to- gether ; but I heard her gentle voice reproving him for the word, and it fell upon my heart like the moon upon the sea. Jack, after a storm. My hand fell by my side. He is her father, thought I ; and, for the first time in his life. Will Stanley brooked an affront.' " Just as he was speaking, a gentle tap came to the door ' Good night. Jack,' added he ; ' I understand the signal ; the old cruiser is off the coast, and now for the smuggling trade.' " I may tell you that the reason why old Danvers was so averse to his daughter keeping company with Bill Stanley was, that there was a hypocritical middle-aged villain, called Squire Wates — (the same that Bill spoke of as having sohl off his mother, and left her to die upon straw) — I hate the very name of the old rascal! Well, you see, this same Squire Wates that I am telling you of, came from abroad some where, and bought a vast deal of property about Shields. He was said to be as rich as an Exchange Jew — and per- haps he was. He had cast an eye upon I\lary Danvers, and the grey-haired rascal sought, through the agency of his paltry yellow dross, to accomplish the destruction of the innocent and beautiful creatuie ; and thinking that Will Stanley was an obstacle to the accomplishment of his pur- pose, he determined to have him removed. He also per- suaded old Danvers that he wished to make his daughtci his wife. Conscience ! — after half drowning such a hoary headed knave, I would have hung him up at a yard-arm, without judge or jury, and buried him in a dunghill with- out benefit of clergy. lie employed a fellow of the name of A''^illars as a confederate in his base intentions — one win, had been thrice a bankrupt, without being able to shew a loss that he had sustained, or pay a shilling to his creditors. This creature he professed to set up in business — in some- thing connected with the West India trade — and he pre- vailed on landlord Danvers to embark in the speculaliun, and to risk all that he had saved in the Old Ship for five-and- twenty years. So that the firm — if such a disgraceful trans- action might be called by that appellation — went by the designation of Villars Sf Danvers. The firm, however, was altogether an invention of Wates, to promote his de- signs. There was another whom they engaged in their scheme — a fellow who was a disgrace to the sea — the very spawn of salt water — a Boatswain I^igby ; and the frigatt to which he belonged, was cruising upon the coast for the protection of the coasters. But 3-ou will hear more about these worthies by and by. " It was within a few hours of the time, when, as I to'.c you before. Bill Stanley and Jack Jenkins were to sail upi n a twelvemonth's voyage. The vessel to which they belonge I was lying out in the harbour below Tynemouth Castle, and sweethearts and wives were accompanying the crew to the beach, where a boat was waiting to take them aboard. Slar}' had ventured to accompany William part of the way towards the beach, to bid him adieu ; and when, through tear of her father finding them together, she would have returned, he held her hand more firmly witl.in his, and said — ' Fear nothing, love ; it is the last time we shall see each other for twelve months. Come down as far as the boat ; and do not let it be said, when it pulls off, that Bill Stanley was the only soul in the ship's crew, that had not t living creature on the shore to wave sood-by to — or one tu drop a tear fur his departure, more tlioi; if he were a dog TALES OF TIIH 1K)KDH1!,S. :'A)^ If I lie alone and an outcast in tlio woilil, do not lot nic fcfl it now.' " ' Willingly,' she rcjilied, ' would I follow you, not only tlioie, I)ut to tlic ends of the eaith. Hut my fithcr will be on the lieacli, watcliiiif^ the hoat ; or, if he lie not, the spies of anotlicr will ho there, Jind my aceom|iaiiyin|,' you would only make my [lersecution the greater during your ahsenee.' " ' What !' exeluimed he, ' have I then a rival for your ftfVections, one that 1 know not of, and whose addresses are backed hy your father's iiillucnce ? Who is be? — or what is his name? Tell nio Jlary — I conjure you, hy your plight- ed faith." " ' (Jive not the name of a rival,' said she, • to a hypo- critical wretch, whose heart I would not tread beneath my heel, for fear of pollution ! A rival ! — William, I would not insult the meanest reptile that feeds upon garliage, by placing it in competition with ahypocrile so base and uH'au ! A rival ! — rather would I breathe the vapours of a ploughed cluirnel-house for ever, than be blasted with his breath for II single hour I No — my heart is yours — it is wholly yours — fear not.' " ' Mary,' said he, solemnly, if I am worlhy of your love, I am not unworthy of your conlidence. You would not, you could not, bestow such language on the most wortli- less, where personal indignity had not been oftereoor old father dragged through tlie streets, like u lliief to a prison. O Alary ! it is a sore tiling to iuive an ungrateful child !' " ' () hiisliand I — jiusliand !' said Mrs Danvers ; ' they were thy higli notions, and none of our dear daughter's, that has lirought us to this. But it is not my part to add to thy S(nrows, when thou art ahout to he torn from my side. Alack ! I never thought to he made a widow in this sort.' " 'Wife ! — «ife I' cried he impatiently ; ' l)e it my hlame, or whose hlame it may, \\c can't make a hetter of it now ■ hut 11 IS very hard to have lo^t the earnings of twenty jears, ari.i and to be parted from wile and child. Don't be angiy with me, daughter. Your father meant all he has said or done for your good. Come, give your old fither a kiss and for- give him. It may be the last he will ever receive from you in his own house.' " ti^be threw her arms around his neck and wept ; and while the father and daughter embraced each other, a sheriff's of- ficer entered the house. " ' Well-a-day ! — weH-a-day '' cried Mrs Danvers as she perceived him ; ' thy errand, and the disgi-ace of it, will break my heart." " ' Don't be distressed, good woman, said the officer, ' it is no such disgrace hut that many of the best in the country must submit to it every day. Mr Danvers,' added he, ' 1 am sorry to inform you, you must walk with me. This paper will inform you, you are my prisoner.' " ' It is very hard," said the old man • ' I say, sir, it is verv hard to be called a prisoner, in a free country, for doing nctlting at all. Heaven knows about this here debt that is brought against me, for I don't. But I know that locking me up in a jail won't pay it.' '' ' Uh, cruel law I' exclaimed Mary ; ' framed by fools, and put in force by usurers. Let justice laugh at the wise legislators, who shut up the springs, and eipect the reser- voirs to be filled.' " ' Why, miss,' said the official, ' I didn't make the law ; I be only the officer of the law. So come along, Jlr Dan- vers, my good man, for I can't stop all day to hear your daughter's speeches. I have other jobs of the same sort in hand, and business must be attended to.' " ' Go, unfeeling man,' answered Mary, we will go with you. Bear with misfortune, my dear father, like a man. I will accompany you — take my arm. If I have hung upon yours with pride, upon more joyful occasions, it shall not lie said that I was ashamed for you to rest upon mine, when they led you through the streets to a prison.' And she ac- ojmpanied him to the place of confinement. "it was two days after old Danvers had been taken to pri- son, that the frigate into which William Stanley had been impressed made towards the land, and rode otf the mouth of the Tyue, while a boat's crew were ordered on shore. Bo.itswain Righj', apprehensive that William would request to bo one of them, and that his request might be granted, had, preWousto the boat leaving the vessel, sought to quarrel with him, ai d struck him ; and requested of the lieutenant, that, in consequence of the insolence he had used towards him, he should not he permitted to go on shore, but, as a punishment, placed on duty. " Poor Stanley was walking the deck, saying unto himself — ' Refused permission to go ashore ! "i es, Rigby ! petty tyrant as thou art, thou shalt rue it ! Refused a privilege lliat would have caused a slave to rebel, had lie been denied it. But the time will come, when we sh:ill meet U]ion terms of equality ; and were his cowardice eipjal to his brutality — yea, were he shielded by a brcast-jilute hard as his own heart — my revenge shall find a passage through both ; and bis blood shall wash out the impression and the shame of (be blow, w ilh which to-ihiy he dared to smite me as a dog. The remembrance of that blow sticks as a dagger in mv throat — its remembrance chokes me !' And, hurried on by the agitation of his feelings, he spoke aloud as he continued. ' Not only denied to set my fool upon the place of my na- tivity, hut struck ! — yes, struck like a hound, by a creature I despise! O memory!' he added, 'torture me not 1 Here, every remembered object strikes painfully on my eye- balls 1 The church and the churchyard, when? my mother's body now mingles with the dust, are now before me, and I am prohibited from shedding a tear upon her gi-ave.* The banks of the Tyne, where I wandered with my Mary, whilt it sighed aU'ection by our side, and the blue sea, which lay behind us, raising a song of love, are now visible — but though they are still beautiful, they arc as beautiful things that lived and were loved, but that are now dead !' " In the intensity of his feelings, he perceived not a boat which drew alongside ; and, while ho yet stood in a reverie, his old crony. Jack Jenkins, sprang on board, and, assisted by a waterman, raised Mary Danvers to the deck. " ' Yonder he is,' exclaimed Jack, ' leaning over the gun- wale, as melancholy as a merman making his last will and testament in the presence of his father Neptune.' " Stanley started round at the voice of his friend ; he he held his betrothed wife ; for you know they were the Siime as betrothed — they had vowed to be true to each other, and, I believe, broken a ring betwixt them. " ' My own Mary !' he cried, and sprang forward to meet her. Tlie poor things fell upon each other's neck, and wept like children. " ' Shove me your fist, my hearty, cried Jenkins, ' as soon as you have done there. I thought I would give you a bit of an agreeable sui-prise.' " There, Jack ! — there, my honest old friend !' cried Bill, stretching out his one hand, and with the other supporting his sweetheart. ' My head and heart are scudding beneath a sudden tempest of joy ! Speak, Jlary, love ; let nie again hear your voice thrilling like music through my breast ! O Jack ! this visit is like one who has been run down in a squall at midnight, and ere he is aware that the waters have covered over him, he finds himself aloft, listening to the harps of the liapp}'.' " ' I don't know what it is like. Bill,' said the other ; ' hut it an't like the meetings we used to have.' " 'Why so silent, love,' said William, addressing Mary ; ' in another hour I shall be oft' duty, and in one day ot h.appiness let us forget the past.' " ' Dear William,' she replied, ' I know not what I should say, nor what I should conceal. I have so little of joy to communicate, that I would not embitter the pleasure of the present short hour, by a recital of the events that have occurred during your absence.' "• Hide nothing from me, Mary,' said he earnestly; 'but tell me, have my forebodings, regarding the monster Wates, been but too true.'' Or are your parents You tremble, love — 3'ou are pale ! O Jenkins, speak ! — tell me what is the meaning of this ?' " • Drop it. Bill, my dear lellow, said the other, 'drop it. You have got Polly alongside of j'ou there, with a heart as sound and true to you as when you left her ; and don't dis- tress her with questions ; she didn't come aboard for that. I served out the old fellow Wates, as you requested me, with a rope's end, t'other night, and that pretty smartly too. • From the London police reports of last wt»ok, it M'onlil appear that to weep over a parenl*s grave is an otTence ajjainst the law 1 What law we kitotv Dot but it is not the law of nattue. 310 TALES OF THE BORDERS. And, with regarJ to father Danvers, why, poor soul, some- how or other, misfortune has got the weather-gage of him, and the otlier day he was taken to jail. So, say no more about it, bill — wo can't mend it.' " ' AVTiy,' he exchiimed, stamping his foot as he spoke, ' why am I a slave ? And who, my beloved IMary — who noiv shall protect you ? But I can still do something. 1 have a bank bill for a hundred pounds, the savings of for- mer voyages. I know not why I took it out of my locker this morning. I had it carefully placed away with the ring- let which I cut from your brow, dearest. Here are both ; I will keep the ringlet, and think it dearer than ever ; take you the note, my love ; it may be of service to your father.' " ' No, no, AVilliam,' she cried, ' I must not, I cannot ! Dearest, most generous of men, do not pitj/ me, or I shall wither in your sight. Look on me as you were wont. But, oh 1 let me not stand before you as a beggar. Keep it — as you love me, keep it — make me not ashamed to look in your face.' " ' Then take it, Jack, take it, said Stanley, handing him the note ; ' do with it as I desire. Say nothing more now ; for here comes our Boatswain Rigby, the curse of our ship's crew, and the disgrace of the service.' "Afary shuddered as RJgby approached them ; and bois- terously said — ' Who have you got there, fellow, and you upon duty .'' I shall report you instantly. Some of your old friends, and meditating an escape with them, I see.' And, turning to Jenkins, he added — ' Who, sir, gave you permission to come on board this vessel, and to bring a wo- man of thai description along with you.'' Off, instantly, or I shall detain you too. You, girl, must remain ;' and he approached her fiimiliarly to take her by the arm. Stanley sprang forward, exclaiming—' Hold, sir, bold ! You have insulted her by your words ; but touch not, as you would remain a living man, the hem of her garment.' " ' Begone to your duty, presumptuous slave !' cried the boatswain fiercely ; ' begone !' And, as he spoke, he raised his hand, and struck him on the breast. " ' Again ! — ha ! — ha ! — ha !' exclaimed William, like a demon laughing through excess of torture ; ' twice you have struck me, Higby, to-day ! — struck me in the presence of her who is dearer to me than life! Now, heaven have mercy on thee !' And, seizing the boatswain by the breast, he hurled him violently on the deck, and planted hisfoot upon his bosom. " • William ! — dear William !' cried Mary ; forbear ! — forbear !' " ' Bill, Bill, my dear fellow !' cried Jack, ' don't lose your life for the sake of a ruffian.' " William continued standing with his foot upon his breast, laughing in the same wild and fearful manner, and shouting — ' struck me !' while Rigby called for help. A number of the ship's crew sprang forward to the rescue of the boatsw.iin, who, rising, cried — ' The irons instantly ! Set a double watch over him ! He has attempted, as ye have witnessed, the life of an officer, and his first promotion shall be the yard-arm.' ' While they were placing the irons upon him, Mary threw herself at Rigby's feet, exclaiming — ' Oh, spare him I — save the life of my William ! — by her that bore you, or that loves you, save him ! — -save him !' " ' Rise, Mary !' cried William, ' that our farewell glance be not one of reproach. Pray for vengeance on my enemy ! i'arewell. Jack — for ever this time ! See my Slary safe .'' And, as they were bearing him away, he turned his head towards her, and cried — ' Dearest, we shall meet hereafter, where the villain and the tyrant cannot enter.' " She fell insensible on the deck, and, in a state of un- consciousness, was conveyed on shore by Jenkin" " The frigate was commanded by Captain Sherboume, and, when the officers were assembled to hold a court-mar- tial over poor Stanley, he said, addressing Iligby- ' TI.ere is not a man in the Britisn navy. Boatswain Rigby, niort determined than myself to preserve order and discipline ; but while, as captain of this vessel, I am compelled to en. force the law, 1 am no advocate for the inhuman and de. grading lash ; nor can I, with indifference, sentence a bravt fellow to be hung up for doing that which the best feelings of his nature, and the sentiments that make a hero, prompt- ed him to do. 1 sit here as a judge, and am neither advo- cate for the prisoner, nor your accuser ; but, if the law must l)e satisfied, the offence, wherever it is found, shall be pun- ished, whether in the accused or in the accuser. For it has not escaped my observation, that no officer under me has ever found a fault in the prisoner, save yourself. Are you then resolved and prepared to prosecute your charge ?' " ' I am both resolved and prepared. Captain Sherboume,' said Rigby ; ' and I demand the satisfaction of the laws of my country and the service, not only as an officer who has been insulted and injured, but as a British officer and sub- ject, whose life has been attempted.' " ' This is a serious charge, boatswain,' said Captain Sher- boume ; ' let the prisoner be brought forward.' " The culprit was brought up, guarded, and in fetters, and, being placed before his judges — ' Prisoner.' began tlie captain, ' I deeply regret that one of your appearance, and of your uniform excellent conduct and courage, while under my command, should be brought before me under such cir- cumstances as those in which you now stand ; and I regret the more that, if the charges be proved, the proofs of your former character and courage, which are known to us, will he of no avail. You are charged not only with striking your commanding officer, which is in itself a heinous of- fence, but also with attempting his life. Do you plead guilty or not guilty ?' " ' That,' replied the prisoner, 'is as your honours please to interpret the deed. But there is no such charge reckon- ed against me in the log-book aloft.' " ' You then ple.ad not guilty,' said the captain. " ' I am guilty,' answered he, ' of having acted as it wag the duty of a man to act. I am guilty of ha-ving convinced a villain, that a proud heart may be found beneath a plain blue jacket. I am guilty of having proved that there are souls and feelings before the mast, as high-minded and .la keen as upon the quarter-deck. But ' the head and front of my offending hath this extent, no more.' ' " ' He speaks bravely,' muttered some of those who heard him ; ' the ch.aplain himself couldn't have said it so well by half.' " ' Boatswain,' said the captain, in the hearing of the prisoner, 'state the particulars of your charge against him.' " ' While it was his turn on duty,' said Kigby, ' I found him neglecting it, and plotting his escape from the frig.ate in conversation with a suspicious-looking man, and a girl of common fame' " ' 'Tls false ! — despicable recreant '. — 'tis false !" inter- rupted William wildly ; • she is spotless as the fountains of light! Breathe again dishoir ur on licr name, and those chains that bind me shall hurl you, with the fiilsehood blis- tering on your tongue, do^m to' " ' Silence, young man !' interposed the captain, ' I com- mand you. If you have cause of complaint ynu will after- wards be hoard. You may be mistaken, JMr Rigby, regard- ing the character of the j'oung woman, and you will not better your cause in our eyes, by unnecessaiily blackening the prisoner's.' " ' Captain Sherboume, inquired (he boatswain, in an offended tone, ' do you question my honour?' " ' I permit no such interruptions, sir,' said the captain ; ' we sit here to deal with facts^ not with honour. Go on with your charge.' ' When,' resumed Rigby, ' I ovcihoard him plotting his leioape from the service, and commanded hira to his duty; TALES OF THE BORDERS. •SIl he haucjlitlly rclicllcd ; anil, on my onlcriiij; thr str:ingers on slioro, In: spnin^ Ibi-Manl, and ill there liad Ids foot upon his breast. " ' Do you suppose,' inquired the Captain ' he Iiad a de sign n])on his life.''' " ' I'lease your honour,' answered the seaman, 'I can't say ; but yon liad better ask himself. If he had, he won't deny it; for I'll take my Bible oath that liill, poor fellow, never hove the hatchet in his life- — and I don't believe he would do it to save his life. I could always be as sure of what he said, as I am of our latitude when your honour's own haiul works it out.' " 'Well,' in(|uired the Captain, addressing the other sea- man, ' what evidence have you to oft'er.?' " ' I don't know anything about evidence, your honours,' answered the seaman. ' The boatswain was lying on the deck, and poor Bill had his foot upon his breast sure enough, and was laughing in such a dismal way as made me think that he had gone maddish through ill-usage or something. For, poor fellow, he was never easily raised, and though Srave as a lion, was harmless as a lamb — all the crew will swear that of him. " ' Prisoner,' said the Captain, ' I am sorry that the evi- dence of these witnesses, who seem as soiTy for your fate as I am, but too strongly confirm, at least a part of the charges ngainst you. If you have anything to say in your defence, the court is inclined to hear you." " ' 1 am neither insensible of, nor ungrateful for the kind- ness of m_y commander,' answered \yilliam ; ' and for the sake of her .and her only, of whom the lioatswain dared to speak as one dishonoured, I do not hold life witliout its value. But I disdain to purchase it by the humiliation of vindica- ting myself farther from the accusations of a wretch whom I despise. Let the law take its award. Death is preferable *.o being the servant of a slave.' " ' 1 know not,' whispered Captain Sherboume to his first iicutenant, ' how my lips shaD pronounce sentence of death on this brave j'oung fellow. His heroic courage and his talents compel me to revere and love him — and there is something, I know not what, in his features, haunts me as a lost remembrance.' Then turning toward the prisoner, 'je added — ' Before the sentence of the court is passed, \vhatever recpiests you may wish to have performed, I will see them faithfully carried into etVect.' " 'Thanks I thanks !' replied William; ' I have but little to offer in return for your goodness ; but the same spirit that made me resent the indignity of my accuser, would, were my hands free, cause me to embrace your knees. I have but three requests to make. I wish my wateh to be given to her who is dearest to me on earth — ]Mary Danvcrs ; my quadrant and other matters to my friend Jenkins, who sails in the ship ' Enterprise' now lying in the river; and my last request is, that, with the ten guineas belonging to me, and now in the possession of the ]>urser, a stone may bo placed upon my mother's giave — which Mary Diinvers will point out — with these words chiseled upon it — To THE JIkjiouv 07 THE Amiabi.ic and Unfobtuk.\te MATILDA STANLEY. Hy Dksihe ok iiEn UNroRTUNATK Son' "'Matilda Stanley I' exclaimed Captain Slierbmirne, in a tone of agitation, ' was that the name of your mother '(' " 'It was, your honour,' rcplii'd William, 'and there were few such mothers.' " ' And your father ! — your father !' repeated the Cajitain, with increased agitation ; ' what knew you of him .''' "'Alas! nothing!' exclaimed thi' prisoner bitterly, and the tears gushed down his cheeks; ' but, oh, reeal not to my memory in a moment like this — recal not my mother's No ! no ! my sainted mother!' " ' O conscience ! conscience !' exclaimed the Captain, and starting to his feet, and gasping in eagerness as he sjioku. ' One question more — and your mother's father was a dis- senting clergyman in the village of name .' — name the place ! on that depends your life, and my hajipiness or misery.' " ' In the village of in AVestmorelaiid,' replied William ; ' but he survived not his daughter's brok('n heart. You knew them, then ? Oh, did you know my father ?' " • My son ! my son ! come to a father's heart,' exclaimed the Captain, springing forward and falling on his neck ; 'I am yoiirfalhcr ! Shade of my wronged Jlatilda ! look on this !' " ' BIy father !' exclaimed William, 'have I found him 1 and in such an hour 1 But, if you loved my mother, whcro- forc' ■ " ' Upbraid me not, my son,' interrupted the Captain, 'mingle not gall with my cup of joy. Your mother Wiis my wife — my first, my only one. Circumstances forced rae to exact a promise from her, that our marriage should be concealed until I dared to acknowledge it , and long capti- vity severed me from her; until, on my return, I could obtain no trace of cither of you. How I liave mourned for her, all who now stand beside me have been the daily witnesses. BIy son I my son !' "'My father! O my father!' exclaimed William; 'but at this moment you are also my judi^e.' " ' No ! no !' cried the Captain. ' Seamen, strike off the fetters from your commander's son. Rigby, at another tri- bunal I will be surety for the apjiearance of my son.' "The fetters were struck off from William's hands and feet, and officers and men burst simultaneously into three times three, loud, long, and hearty cheers "The boatswain, fearing that a worse thing might come upon him, fell on his knees before the Captain, and made a full confession of his shameful intrigue with Scpiire Wates, and begged forgiveness, as his kidnapping of William had been the means of finding the commander his son. The rascal was forgiven, but dismissed the frigate. " But I must return to poor Mary. She was sitting beside her fiither in the prison, when he addressed her say- ing — ' Come, come, child, thou saidst thou wouhlst sing and read to me, and is this thy singing — nothing but sighing and tears. I'm saying, is this thy promised singing, daugh- ter.? — but it is perhaps the fittest singing for a Jail.' " ' Ah, father !' said Slary, ' you know I would not wil lingly add to your sorrows. But can you forbid me to weep for him, who, from childhood, has been to me as a brother — whom I have long regarded as a husband, and \\\\o, J'or viy sake, must in a few hours die as the vilest criminal.' "'Whv, I'm saying, daughter,' said old Danvers, 'let' have no more about it. I'm as soiTy for Bill Staidey ai thou canst be for thy life. But I say, girl, they can expect no better who fly in the face of a father. I am sure we have distress enough of our own, if we would only think about it, ^"ithout meddling with that of other peo]ile's. la it not bad enough that thj- father is shut up here within these iron bars, and perhaps thou and thy mother will be driven to beg upon the streets, when thou mightest li.iTe been riding in thy carriage. I'm saying, is not this Diisei7 312 TALES OF THE BORDERS. enough, without thy crying about people thou hast nothing to do with. Wliy, Mary, thou mays't be thankful thou an't his wife.' '< I athcr ! father !' she said, wringing her hands together, 'murmur not at our lot, nor upbraid me with sympathising in misery to which yours is mercy ! What are the sutFer- in'illiam Arcbbold, or Blithe \A'illic, as some call him for a by-word; those lads, and a dozen o' others, I am 314 TALES OF THE BORDERS, crpditaWy iiifoiiiicd, are ttierc, Jjliikitig, sinf;inf^, swearings fighting, or dancing, niglit after niglit; and even Johnny Grippy,the miser, that Ivvoiild have made an elder last year hut on account o' his penuriousness, is said to slip in on the edge o' his foot every morning, to swallow his dram before breakfast ! I tell ye, Roger, slie is bringing them to ruin faster than I can bring them to a sense o' sin — or whatever im- pression I may make, her liquor is washing away. She has brought a plague amongst us, and it is entering our habi- tations — it is til inning the sanctuary, striking down our strong men, and making mothers miserable. Therefore, unless Luckie Riddle will, in the meantime, relinquish her traffic, I tliink we ought in duty to proliihit her from coming forward on tlie next half yearly occasion.' "I was perfectly aware that there was a vast deal o' truth in what the minister said, but I tliouglit he was carrying the case to a length that couldna be justified ; and I advised iiim to remember that he was a minister o' the gospel, but not of the law. So all proceedings against Mrs Riddle were stop- ped, and lior business went on, doing much injury to the minds, bodies, purses, and families, of manvin the village. " It was nae great secret that there were folk, both in anrl about the town, that had small stills concealed and working about their premises, and that there wasna a night but they sent gallons o' spirits owre the hills into England ; but, by some means or other, government got wit of these clan- destine transactions, and the consequence was, tliat agauger was sent to live in the village, and three armed soldiers were billotted on the inhabitants, who had to provide beds for them week about. Naebody cared for having men wi' swords and fire-arms in their house, and they preferred pay- ing for their bed at Luckie Riddle's. They were regarded as spies, and their appearance caused a great commotion amongst young and old. I often feared that the spirit of murmuring would break out into open rebellion ; and one morning tlie soldiers came down from the hills, carrying the ganger, covered wi' blood, and in a state that ye could hardly ken life in him. One o' the soldiers also was dreadfully bruised about the Iiead, and his sword was broken through the middle. They acknowledged that they had had a ter- rible battle wi' a party o' smugglers, and rewards were of- fered for their appreiiension. But, though many of our peo- j)le were then making rapid strides towards depravity, there was none of them so depraved as to sell his neighbour, as Judas did his master, for a sum of money. None o' us had any great doubts about who had been in the ploy, and some o' our folk werena seen for months after; and, when inquir- ies were made concerning them, their friends said they were in England, or the dear kens where — places where they could have no more business than wi' the man o' the moon — but when they came back, some o' them were lamiters for life. " The next improvement, as they called it, was the build- ing of a strong, square, flat-roofed liouse, like a castle in miniature, wi' an iron-stancheled window, and an oak door that might have resisted the attack o' a battering-ram. This was intended to be a place of confinement for disorderly per- sons. Aconstable was appointed to takecareof it, anditofteu furnished some of Luckie Riddle's customers with a night's lodgings. Persons guilty of offences were also confined tliere, until they could be removed to the county jail. " The next thing that followed, certainly was an improve- ment, bu( it had its drawbacks. It was the erection of a woollen manufactory, in which a great number o' men, women, and bairns, were employed. But they were mostly strangers- for our folk were ignorant of the work, and the proprietor of the factory brought them someway from the west of Ktigland. The auld residenters were swallowed up in the influx of new comers. But it caused a great stir about the town, and gave the street quite a new appearance. The factory hadna commenced three months, when a rival establishment was set up in opposition to Luckie Riddle, and one puiiiic-house followed uprin the back of another, unti, now we have ten of tiiem. As a matter of course, there was a great deal of more money spent in the village ; and several young lads belonging to it, that bad served their time as shopkeepers in the county town, came and commenced busi- iiess in it, some of them beneath their father's roof, and enlarging the bit window o' six panes — where their molher had exposed thread, biscuits, and gingerbread for sale — into a great bow-window that projected into the street, they there exhibited for sale, all that the eye could desire for dress, or the palate to pet it. Yet with an increase of trade and money, there also came an increase of crime and a laxity of morals, and vices became common among both sexes that were unheard of in my young days. Nevertheless, the evil did not come without a degree of good to counterbalance it ; and, in course of lime, besides the kirk, the handsome dissentingmeeting-house, that ye would observe at ihefootot the town, was built. Four schools, besides the parish-school, also sprang up, so that every one had education actually broughtto their door; but opposition at that time, (which was very singular,) instead o' lo i^'ering, raised the jirice o' school- ing, and he that charged highest, got the genteelest school. Then both the kirk and the meeting-nouse got libraries attached to them, and Luckie Riddle found the libraries by far the most powerful opposition she had had to contend wi'. Some of the youngsters, also, formed what they called a Mechanic's Institution, and they also got a library, and met for instruction after work hours ; and, I declare to ye, that even callants, in a manner, became so learned, that I often had great difficulty to keep my ground wi' them; and I have actually heard some of them have the impudence to tell the dominie that taught them their letters, that he was utterly ignorant of all useful learning, and that he knew nothing of the properties of either chemistry or mechanics When I was a youth, also, I dinnaken if there was a ])erson in the village, save the minister, kenned what a newspapei was. Politics never were beard tell of until about the yeal seventy-five or eighty, but, ever since then, they have been more and more discussed, until now they have divided the whole town into parties, and keep it in a state of perpetual ferment ; and now there are not less than five newspapers come from London by the post every day, besides a score of weekly ones on the Saturday. Ye see, sir, that even in my time, very great changes and improvements have taken place ; and I am free to give it as my opinion, that society is more intellectual now, than it was when I first kenned it; and, upon the whole, I would say, that mankind, instead of degenerating, are improving. I recollect, that even the street there, ye couldna get across it in the winter season, without lairing knee-deep in a dub ; and now ye see, it is all what they call Macadamized, and as firm, drv, and durable, as sheet of iron. In fact, sir, within the last forty years, the improvements and clianges in this village alone are past all belief — and the alterations in the place are nothing to wli^ij I have seen and heard of the ups and downs, and vicissi- tudes of its iiihabilants." The patriarch having finished his account of the village, thus proceeded with the history of the individuals after whom the stranger had inquired. THE LAIRD. " Ye have asked me if auld Laird Cochrane be stili living at the Ha', which, for three centuries, was the glory and pride of his ancestors. Listen, sir, and ye shall hear concerning him. He was born and brought up amongst tis, and for many years he was a blessing to this part of the country The good he did was incalculable. He was owner of two tlumsand acres of as excellent land as ye would have found on all the Borders; and I could have defied ony man to hear a poor mouth made throughout the whole lengtli and breadth of his estate. His tenants were all happy, weel-tu-du, and TALES OF THE BORDEES. 315 c 'II tent. There wasnau iiiuiiiiiir amongst tliem,n()rain.)nj?Nt all Ills servants. lit; was a laiiilKprJ amoiii^st ten tliuusanil. He was always devising some new scheme or improvement to give employment to the poor ; and lie would as soon have thought of'takiiijf away !iis own life as distressinjif a tenant. Unt the longest day has an end, and so had the goodness and henevolence of Laird Cochrane. "It will be eight-and-twenty years ago, just about this oresent time, that he took a S(nl of back-going in his health, .ind somebody got him advised to go to a place in the sontli, that they call Tunbridge Wells — one of the places where people, that can afford annnally to have fashionable com- plaints, go to drirdv mineral waters. He wonld then be about tifly-two years of age ; and the distress of both anld and young in the vilhige was very great at his departure. Men, women, and children, accompanied him a full mile from the porter's lodge, and wlien his carriage drove away, there was not one that didna say — ' Heaven bless yon !' On the Sabbath also, our minister, Mr Anderson, prayed for him very fervidly. " Weel, we heard no more about the laird, nor how the waters agreed wi' his stomach, for the space of about two months, when, to our surprise, a rumour got abroad that he was on the eve of being married. Some folk laughed at the report, and made light of it ; but I did no such thing, for I remembered the proverb, that — ' An aidd fool is the worst of all fouls.' But, to increase our astonishment, carl, loads of furniture, and numbers of upholsterers, arrived from Kdinburgh, and the housekeeper and butler received orders to have everything in readiness, in the best manner, for the reception of their new leddy I There was nothing else talked about in the village for a fortniglit, and, I believe, nothing else dreamed about. A clap of thunder bursting out on a new year's morning, ushering in the year, and con- tinuing for a day without intermission, could not have sur- prised us more. There were several widows and auld maids in the j>arish, that the laird allowed so much a-year to, and their dinner every Sunday and Wednesday from the Ha' kitchen, and they, poor creatures, were in very great distress about the matter. They were principally auld or feckless people, and they were afraid that if their benefactor should stop his bounty, that they would be left to perish. \Vhether they judged by their own dispositions or not, it is not for me to say; but certain it is, that one and nil of them were afraid that his marrying a wife would put an end both to their annuities and the dinners which they received twice a-week from his kitchen. " I dinna suppose that there was a great deal the matter wi' the laird when he went to Tunbridge Wells — like many others, he wasna weel from having owre little to do. But lie had not been there many days, wiien his fancy was attracted by a dashing young leddy, of four or five-and- twenty, the daugliter of a gentleman who was a dignitary in the church, but who lived n[) to and rather beyond his income, so that when he shunld die, his gay family, of whom he had four daughters, would be left pennyless. The name of the laird's intended was Jemima, and she certainly was n pretty woman, and what ye would call a handsome one; but there was a haughtiness about her looks, and a boldness in her carriage, which were far from being becoming in a woman. Her looks and carriage, however, were not her worst fault. She had been taken to the Wells by her mamma, as she termed her mother, for the express purpose of being exhibited — much after the same manner as cattle are exhibited at a fair — to see whether any bachelor or widowerwoiddmakeproposals. Ourgood laird was smitten biglied, was accepted, and sealed the marriage contract "The marriage took place immediately, but he didna arrive at the Ha' wi' his young wile till the following June. When ihev did arrive, her failher, the divine, was wi' them, and wiiiiin a week there wa; a roMi;i!ele uverturniuir of the whole cstablishuuMit, from Head to foot. They came in two speck-ami span-new carriages, shining like the sun wi' silver ornaments. They brought also a led.ly's-maid wi' them that wore her veils, and her frills, and her fal-de-rals ; a.ini tlie housekeeper declared, that, for the first eight days, slio didna ken her mistress from the maid ; for Miss imitated .Mat of these, all, save two, a boy and a girl, died in infancy; and in giving birth to the last, the mother perished. It was ox a Sunday that she died ; and I remember that, on the fol • lowing Sabbath, her widowed husband entered the pulpit to preach her funeral sermon. His text was — ' Why should we mourn as those who have no hope ?' He proceeded with his discourse, but every few minutes he paused, he sobbed — the big tears ran down his cheeks, and all the con- gregation wept with him. At last he quoted the words — ' In the morning I preached to the people, and in the even- ing my wife died!' His heart filled — the tears gushed from his eyes — he could say no more — he sank down on the seat and covered his face with his hands. Two of the elders went up to the pulpit, and led him to the Manse ; and the precentor, of his own accord, giving out a psalm, the con- gregation sang it and dispersed. " I have mentioned to ye his two surviving bairns — the name ol ll.c ludde was K.dwmd, and of the lassie, Esllie.-, TALES OF THE BORDERS. 317 Etlvrard was several years (ildcr tli.ui li'.s sister; and, from his youth upwards, lie was a bohl, spvi(i;li;ly, fearless callant. Often have I observed liim i)liiyinf^ the part of a captain, and drillinf^ tiie laddies of the viilivfi^e into squares and lines, like a little army; and as often have I heard liiiii say, that he would be nothing but a sodj^er. His faither (as every Christian ou^lit to do) rej^arded war as a great wiikedness, and as an abomination that disgraced the earth ; he, there- fore, was grieved to see the military bent of his son's inclin- ation, and did everything in his power to break him from it. Ele believed, and correctly too, that Kdward had too much pride to enter the army as a common soldier, where he would be little better than a slave, and have to lift his hat to every puppy that wore an e|)nidette on his shoulder or a sash round his waist. The minister, therefore, was re- solved that he would not advance the money to buy his son a commission. " Here I must notice Johnny Grippy, who had never been Wanned to perform a generous aition in the whole course of liis existence. He was a man that, if he had paited wi' a bawbee, to save a fellow-creature from starvation, wadnn, through vexation, have sleeped again for a week. If ouy oixly had pleaded poverty to him, he would have asked them — ' What right they had to bo poor?" It would li^ve oeen more difficult for him to answer — ' What right he had CO be rich ?' Johnny never forgave Mr Anderson for pro- hibiting him from being made an elder; and, in his own quiet, but cruel way, he said he would see that he got satis- faction, to the last plack, for the insult. Now, what do ye tiiink the miser did ? He absolutely offered young Maister rjdward money to buy an ensign's commission, at the mo- derate interest of ten per cent., and on the understanding mat he would gie him four years' credit for the interest, and that he wadna request the principal until he was made a captain. This proposal was made for the sole and indi- vidual purpose of grieving and afflicting Mr Anderson, and of being revenged on him. The silly laddie, dazzled wi' the bright sword, and the golddaced coat of an officer, and thinking it a grand thing to be a soldier — fancying himself a general, a hero, a conqueror in a hundred fights — swal- lowed the temptation, took the offered money on the con- ditions agreed to; and through the assistance of a college acquaintance, the son of a member of parliament, purchased a commission in a foot regiment. All this was done with- out liis fathei's knowledge; and when John Grippy wit- nessed the good man's tears as he parted with his son, his cold lieart rejoiced that his revenge had been so far success- ful, and for once he regretted not having parted with his money without a sure bond being made doubly sure. " In a very few weeks after Edvi'ard Anderson joined liis regiment, he accompanied it abroad ; and twelve months had not passed, when the public papers contained an ac- count of his having been promoted to the rank of lieutenant on the field, on account of his bravery. •' But listen, sir, to what follows. — It was on our fast-day, that the news arrived concerning a great victory in the In- dies. W'e were all interested in the tidings, and the more particularly, as we knew that our minister's son was at the battle. His faither and his sister were in a state of great anxiety concerning him, for whether he was dead or living, they could not tell. The weather was remarkably fine, and as a great preacher was to serve some of the tables, and preach during the afternoon's service, the kirk was crowded almost to suffocation, and it was foimd necessary to perform the ordinances in the open air. A green plot, in front of the Manse, was chosen for the occasion, and which was capable of accommodating two or three thousand people, it was a grand sight to see such a multitude sitting on the green sward, singing the praises cf their Maker, wi' the great lieavens aboon them fur a canopy ! its very glory and iuimonsity rcudeiing them inca[Kililf of aoureciating its un- speakable magnlfioencp, and rendering as less tlian the dust in the balance, the teinjiles of men's hands. It remindeii nu! of the days of the Covenant, when the pnlpit was a mountain side, and its covering a cloud. Mr Anderson was a man whose very existence seemed linked wi' affection foi his family. He had had great affection in it, and everj death seemed to transfer the love that he had borne for the dead, in a stronger degree towards those that were left, [lis S(Md was built up in them. All the congregation ob- served that he was greatly agitated various times during his discourse. It was evident to all, that apprehensions for the fate of his son were forcingthemselvesnpim liis tliouglits "The postman at that time brought the letters from the next town every day about one o'clock. Mr Anderson wai serving the first table, and his face was towards the Manse, when the postman, approaching the door, waved his liand towards ^liss ICsther, who sat near it, as much as to say that he liaky into England, and in sncli a way too, that neilher the dirdnni, the risk, nor tho loss could land at his door. But he had dealings in many concerns, both hire and elsewhere. Wherever he heard of any thing by which tlu're was money to be made, lie always endeavoured to get his finger in. ]t was aflirmed that he was connected wi' some wealthy trading companies about London, and that he had ships upon ihe sea. I know for a positive fact, that he went up to the great city every year, and that he actually begged his way there and hack again. But it is my opinion that he made the greater part of his wealth bylending out money tousury. Bythismeans, a great deal of pro|ierty fell into liis possession, for he was as cruel as a starving tiger. He wasadespiserof both justice and mercy, and all he cared about was — " 1 maun line my bargain" That was a.ways his answer, if ony body oifered to intercede wi' him fur ony poor creature that he was dis- tressing. " The auld knave endeavoured to cover liis avarice wi" the clock of religion and, as I have already informed ye, sought to be made an elder ; and, as ye have been made aware, lie never forgave our late worthy minister for the slight and disappointment, but, even against his nature, parted wi' money to obtain a cruel revenge. It W(nild tire you, if I were to inform you of the one-thousandth part of Johnny's meanness, and the instances of his ravening avariciousness, or the misery which he caused in the habitations of both high and low. Indeed I may say, that he grew rich through the ruin of others ; and he sought out objects of misery on I which he might fix his devouring talons, even as a vulture seeketh out a dead carcass. " Atan enormous interest lie lent money to the auldlaird; and he cunningly permitted the interest to aicumulate, year after year, until the laird's death. He also advanced suins to the young laird at a rate even more usurious, and got the entire title-deeds of the estate into his hands as security; and when the laird fell in the duel wi' Alexander Ellicjt, he seized and took possession of Il.a' estate, and iill that was thereon, claiming them as his I The whole p.arisli was thunderstruck wi' astonishment. "The next kin to the young laird threatened to throw the case into the Ciuirt of Chancery. " ' Let tiiem,' said Johnny, laughing in his sleeve, ' they will live laiig that live to see it settled there — and, / will hue my haryain.' " Weel, the case was thrown into Chancery, and Johnny did not live to see it settled, for settled it is not luitil this day, and what some one said of eternity might be said of it — it is < beginning to begin.' " I think ye heard that John had acquired a habit of slip- ping owre to Luckie Riddle's, on the edge of his foot, for a dram before breakfast. He took a strong liking for her strong bottle, and by way of saving the expense of the dram, he left off the practice of taking a breakfast; and when the single dram increased to two and three in the day, he con- fined himself to one meal, and that of the poorest and scantiest kind — a uotatoe and salt, or maybe a herring as a 820 TALES OF THE BORDERS. uxury. Gut 't "'^s more llian suspected that tlie potatoes on whicli lie lived were not all honestly come by ; for I myself have seen him in a field amongst other folks, stoop- ing- down and fingering at the drills.and slipping the potatoes into his coat pocket; and when asked what he was doing, he would have said, (quite collectedly, for there was no possibility of confusing him,) ' Ou, I am just looking what sort of crop such-a-one is going to have this year.' "But tiie miser's love of drink increased upon iiim, and tlie more he spent on liquor the more he hungered himself. He became a living skeleton, and in the depth of a severe winter, he was found sitting dead behind his desk, with the copy of a letter before him, in which he had instructed his man of business to sell oflf, immediately, the husband of Peggy Lilly." "The husband of Peggy Lilly!" mterrupted the stranger, who had hitherto listened to the records of the patriarch in silence — " who was he ? " " That," resumed the old man, " seems to interest you, aud wherefore I cannot divine, as I have no recollection of voai- face ; but, if ye have patience and hearken ye shall iiear all that I can tell ye of the history of PEGGY LILLY. " Peggy was allowed to be the bonniest lass in all the parish ; but she was as prudent and sedate as she was bonny, a'-d everybody wondered that she keepit company wi' Wil- liam Arclibold sae lang as she did, after he had gien himsel' np to a habit o' dissipation. Though she, perhaps, ihoclit as I did, that it was mere thochtlcssness in the young man. that he was jist drawn awa by' his Iriend Thomas Elliot, ana that, it lie were married, he would reform. Luikie Riddle's sign, however, was a black si -lit to liim, and I doot it has been a heart-sore to puir Peggy. The difference that the subject gave rise to between them, was perhaps unlucky for the happiness o' baith parties. In the vexation o' the moment, she uttered words o' harshness which her heart did not dictate, and, in leaving as he did, lie acted rashly. " When we'lipard, however, of William Archbold's hav- ing left the town, and the cause o' his leaving, (that it arose from Peggy having spoken to him as if disgusted at his conduct,) we laughed and said he would soon come back again. She thought the same thing; but weeks and months succeeded each other, and now five-and-twenly years have passed, and the lad lias been no more lieard of. How deeply Peggy grieved for iier conduct, and mourned his absence, was visible in her countenance. " About ten years after her sister's death, her parents, who had both become very frail, were thrown out of their bit farm, after several very unfortunate seasons in it, and they were left entirely dependent upon her exertions for their support. They were reduced to very great straits, and many a time it was a wonder to me how they lived; but late and early did she toil for their maintenance ; and, poor hizzy, the sorrow that fell upon her face, for the loss of William Archbold, never left it. " At that time a very decent man, who had taken a small farm in the neighbourhood, began to pay attention to her, and often called at her faither's house. She heard his re- quest, that she would marry him, wi' a sigh — for she liadna forgotten Blithe Willie. But her faither and mither look- ed at her, wi' the tears in their een, and they besought her night and day, that they might see her settled and provided for. She at length yielded to their solicitations, and gied him her hand; but she was candid enough to confess to him, that her affection couldna accompany it, though her respect and duty should. " So far as th*^ world could judge, they seemed to live happily together, and Peggy made an exemplary wife ; but tliere was always like a quiet settled melancUoly on hei countenance. Their farm was too dear taken, and about a year after they were married, it became the property of Johnny Grippy. Ye have already heard what sort of man he was, reaping where he had not sown. He exacted hia rent to the last farthing, or without ceremony paid himseli double from the stock upon the farm. " Peggy's husband became unable, though he stmggled early and late, tomake up his rent, and having fought until his strength was exhausted, and his health and heart broken, he sank down upon his bed, a dying man ; and Johnny, causing the shoritFs oflBcer to seize all that was upon the farm, made them seize also the very bed upon which tho dying man lay. He, in fact, died in their hands, and Peggy was turned out upon the world, a friendless widow, with two helpless infants at her knee ; and a sore, sore fight she has had, to get the bite and the sup for them, poor thing , from that day to this." " But," rejilied the stranger with emotion, " there is one left who will provide for her and her childreu." " Who may that be ?" inquired the patriarch. " William Archbold ;" answered the other. " Preserve us !" said the old man in surprise ; " I dare- say I have been blind not to have recognised ye before — ye are William I" " I am," replied the other ; " Blithe Willie, as you once termed me. Peggy's cutting and just rebuke roused my pride, and filled me with self-abasement at the same instant. In a state of mind bordering on madness I left the village, where I considered my character to be blasted ''or ever. I went to London, and there engaged to go onl to India. I was tnere fortunate in ousiness, and in a tew years became rich. I there, some years ago, discovered Alexander Elliot, (the son of my old compani fiim cnntimiinn; with (lie army, and Iio rcturnrd to Iiis estate near Simpriii, to wateh over and i>rotect liis infant and only surviving son. When tlio tidings were l)rniif,'Iit to liarliara Moor, tliat she, in one day, had heen hereave Be they alive ? — or who brought tliee here? Come,tellme,andI willgie theea penny. " But the poor bairn seemed more bewildered to find itstl where it w.as than I did, and the more I offered to S])cak to it, it cried the louder. "'Why, thou needna cry,' said I, 'I winna eat thi^e , but how came thou here ? — and where be thy fanner ami mother }' " However, I could get nought but screams and cries o' terror out o' the little innocent ; so I cried all round the moor, at the very pitch o' my voice — ' Holloa ! — be theie any one within hearing that has lost a bairn ?' But I am thinking that I might have cried till now, and nobody would have answered, for it is my belief the bairn came there by magic ! I canna say that I have seen the fairy folk mvEel' though I have heard them often enough, but 1 am inclined to believe that they had a hand in stealine away the infant laddie frae his narents, and laying his head upon my breast on the moor. I declare to thee, though I couldn'a stand steady, I was at a stand still what to do, I couldna leave the infant to perish upon the moor, or I sliud never hae been .able to sleep in my bed again wi' the thoughts on't ; and whenever 1 nad to go to Morpeth, why, I slionid h,ae been afcarcd that its little ghost would hao haunted me in the TALES OF THE BORDERS. 3L'7 noim'-CDiniii^ ; ami, if I would liao .)eL'n afoarpil o' it, it is iiiair tliiiii I wimlil liae bet'ii o' iiK'otiiii; tlie liij^^cst iiian in a' Noi-tliumljcriaiul. 15i;t, if I tiKjk it liaiiu-, wliy, I tiioii^lit iii;ain, tiiore would be sic talkinj; and lanjjhinj; anian^ a' wur neighbours, who would l)e sayinj; that llie Iniirn was a sou o" my awn, and my awd aunt would lecture me dead about it. However, liiulinj; I eouhl inak naethini; out o the infant, I lifted him up on the saildle before me, and took llini home wi' me. " ' Why, what be that llmu hast brought, Samly lad .'' ■\sked mv and aunt, as she eanie to the door to meet me. " ' Wliy, it be a bairn, aunt, that 1 found on the moor, jioor tiling," said I. " ' A bairn !' quoth she — ' I hope thou be na the faither e't, &iudy >' " ' I'll gio thee my liand and word on't, aunt,' said I, ' that I knaw nowther the faither nor mother o't ; and from the way in which I found it upon the moor, I doubt uhe- iher over it had owther the one or tlie other.' " IMy aunt was easier satislied than I expected, ami, by degrees, I let out the whole secret o' the story o' linding liim, both to her and to my neighbours. Xobody ever came to own him, ami he soon grew to be a credit to the manner in which I had brought him up. Before he could be more than seventeen, ho was a match for ouv n;au on IJeed «ater iir CiKpiet side, at ony thing they dared to take liiui up at. I was pro\ul o' the laddie, for he did honour to the educa- tion 1 had gien him ; and, before he was eighteen, he was lis tall as mvsel'. lie isna nineteen yet; and my daughter Anne and him are bonnier than onv twa jiictures that ever ivcre hungup in the Duke o' Northumberland's castle. Ay, and thev be as fond o' each other as two wood pigeons. It wild do thy heart gud to see tlieni walking by lieed water iide together, «i' such looks o' hapjiiness in their eyes, that )e i\nd say, sorrow could never dim them wi' a tear. Anne will be a year, or maybe two, awder than him; but, as soon as I think he will be one-and-twenty, thev shall be a wedded ])air. Ay, and at my deeth, the farm sliall be his too — for a better lad ye winna meet in a' Northumberland, nor yet in a' the counties round about it. He has a kind heart and a ready hand ; and his marrow, where strength, courage, or t determined spirit are wanted, I haena met wi'. There is, to be sure, a half-dementit, wild awd wife, they ca' Babby IMoor, that gangs fleeing about wur hills, for a' the world like an evil speerit, and she puts strange notions into his head, and makes a cloud o' uneasiness, as it were, sit upon his brow. When I saw that I would have to keep him, 1 didna ken what name to gie him ; but, after consulting wi' my friends and the clergyman o' the jiarish, it was agreed that lie should hear the surname o' wur family, and my faither's CJiristian name; so we called him Patrick Reed. But the daft awd ^vife came upon him one day amang the hills, and she pretended to look on his brow, and read the lines on his hand, and told him, frae them, tliat Patrick Rtjed uasna his real name, but that he would lind it out some day — that he was born to be rich, though he might never be rich — and that he had an a«d grey-haired faither that was mourning for him night and day, and that he had adopted the son of a relation to be his heir. When he came home, he was greatly trouliled, but be ^vas too open-hearted to conceal from me, or from Anne, the cause of his uneasiness ; and when he had tould us a' that the mad av.d wife had said, 1 tried to laugh him out o' thinking about it, and bade him bring the bottle and take a glass like a man, and never mind it. But Patrick was nae drinker ; and he gravely said to nie, that the face o' the half-daft woman came owre his brain like a confused dream — that he had something like a remem- brance of what she had said ; and he also thought that he remembered having seen her. I wish the witrh Iiad been in the bottom o' the sea ere she met wi' him ; for ever syne then — thou"h Anne and he are as kind and us loving as ever — he isna half tii-' hid thai he used to be ; and there is nae getting lilni now to take a game at onything — though he could beat everybody — for either love or money." Such Mas one of the stories which rough, honest, fear- nolhing Sandy Heed told, in relating his adventures. Now, it came to jiass, that when Patrick, the foundling of whom he has spoken, had been sheltered beneath his roof for the sjiace of seventeen years, that .Sandy, having introduced the cultivation of turnips U])on the lowlands of his farm, ])ro. Jiosed to go to Whitsome fair, to j)urchase cattle to fatten \vitli them, and also sheep from the Lammermuirs to eat them on the ground. lie was now more than threescore, and he was less capable of long journeys than he had been ; and he requested that his adojited son Patrick, who was also to be his son-in-law, should accomjiany him; and it was agreed that they should set out for Wiiitsome together. But, on the evening before their de])arture, as the maideo Anne was returning from a visit to the wife of a neigh, bouring farmer, she was intercepted within a mile of hci father's house. The sibyl-like tigure of i'arbara IMoor stood before her, and exclaimed — " Stand, maiden ! Ye love the young man w hum ye call Patrick — whom your father has so called — and «ho resides beneath his roof, lie loves you. And ye shall be \yed, if I, ivlio have his destiny in my hands, have strength to direct it ! And yet there must be more blood ! — more ! — for I am childless ! — childless ! — childless ! We are not even yet !" She jiaused, and pressed her hand upon her brow ; while the maiden, startled at her manner, trembled before her. But she again added — " Yes! yes ! — ye shall be wed — the bauble wealth shall be yours, and ye deserve happiness. But hearken, ye maiden, for on the obeying of my words depends your fate. \Vhen your faither and Patrick set out fur Whitsome fair, request ve to accompany them — insist that ye do, and ye shall return here a wealthy and a wedded wife; for she says it whose words were never wasted on the wind. Swear, maiden, that ye will perform what I have commanded ye." " Woman !" said Anne, quaking as she sjioke, I neve swore, and I winna swear; but I give thee my hand that I will obey thee. I will go to Whitsome fair wi' my faither and Patrick." " Go! go!" cried the sibyl, " lest the dark spirit come upon me ; and he whom ye call Patrick shall die by his father's hand, or his father by his. But speak not of ^vliom ye have seen, nor of what he have heard — but go and do as ye have been commanded. Be silent till we meet again." Anne bent her head in terror, and promised to obey ; and the weird woman, again exclaiming — '• Go ! — be silent ! — obey !" hastened from her sight. ^\'hen Anne entered the house, her father, and her adojited brother, or lover, were making ready for their journey. She sat down silently and thoughtfully in a corner of the ajiart- ment, and her lialf-sup]iressed sighs reached their ears. " Why, what in the globe, daughter Anne," said he father, " can make thee sigh ? Art thou sad, beca:ise Pa trick is to leave thee to go to a fair for a day or two.'' I suppose thou wouldn't hae troubled thy head, had thy fathei been to be absent as many months. But I don't blame thee . I mind I was tender-hearted at thy age, too — but Patrick knaws better what to say to thee than I do." " Dear Anne," whispered the youth, taking her hand.. " what ails thee .'"" '■ Ask my father," she rejofded, hesitatingly, " that I ma» accompany you to Whitsome fair to-morrow." " Nay, thou canst not go dear," returned Patrick ; '• it is a long ride and a rough one ; and the society thou wilt meet with will alford thee no pleasure, and but small amusement." " I must go," she re]died — " a strange being has laid a terrible command on me !" " A grey-haired, wild-looking woman?" ejaculated Patrick, and his voice trembled as he spoke. 32R TALES OF THE BOllDERS. " I must — I will " Ask me no more, was licr rcjiiy accompanv you," " A dead dream," said the youtli, " seems bursting into life within n;y brain. There are once familiar words ready to leap to my tongue that I cannot utter — and long forgot- ten memories haunting my mind, and flinging tlieir shadows over it, as though the substance again were approaching. But the woman that ye speak of! yes! yes! — there is gomething more than a dream, dear Anne, that links my fate with her ! I remember — I am sure it is no fancy — I do remember having been at a fair when I was a child — a mere child — and the woman ye allude to was there ! Yes ! yes ! — you must accompany us ! I feel, I am certain, that woman hath, indeed, my destiny in her hands !" " Gudness me !" exclaimed Sandy, " what is it that ye twasome are saying between ye.' Is there ony light thrown upon the awd story ; or, is it only the half-crazed randy — (forgie me for ca'ing the poor afflicted creature by ony sic ■lame) — but, I say, is it only some o' the same nonsense that Dabby 5Ioor has been cramming into Anne's ear, wi' «hich she has filled thine, lad ? Upon my word, if I liad my will o' the awd witch, I would douk her in the Reed, till she con. fessed that every story she has tould to thee was a lie from end to end." " Well, father," said Patrick — for he always called Sandy father — " let Anne accompany us to the fair — she requests it, and I will also request it for her." " Ou, ye knaw," said Sandy, " if ye hae made up yer minds between yoursels, that ye are determined to gaun, 1 suppose it would be o' no use for me to offer opposition to owther o' the two o' ye. So, if thou \\'ilt go, get thee ready, Anne, my dear, for it will take us to be off frae here by twelve o'clock t'night, for it is a lang ride, and a rugged ride, as thou wilt find it to thy cost, ere ye be back again. I was never there for my own part, but I hear that the sale o' feeding cattle is expected to be gud — and there I maun be. So, get thee ready, daughter, if ye will go, and haj) thysel' weel up." At midnight, Sandy Reed, his daughter, and his adopted son, \vlth three or four farm-servants, all mounted on light, but strong and active horses, accustomed to the character of the country, set out for Whitsome fair. They arrived at Whitsome before noon on the following day, having crossed the Tweed at Coldstream. There was one individual in the fair, who had some hundred head of cattle exhibited for sale, and that was old Cunningham of Simprin. He himself was present ; but he took but small interest in the transactions, for he was becoming oTd, and was in general melancholy ; and a nephew, whom he in- tended to make his heir, accompanied him, and in most matters made bargains for him, and in his name. Now, Sandy Reed, after walking through the market, .said the only lot that would suit him was that of Cum Jng- liam of Simprin. We may here observe that, througi.'jiit the day, young Patrick became thoughtful and more thought- ful. Even the presence of Anne, who leaned upon his arm, jould hardly summon up a passing smile into his features. After much dis])Uting and sore bargain-making, Sandy Reed, at a good round sum, became the purchaser of all the stock that old Walter Cunningham exhibited in the fair. And when the bargain had been completed, the seller, the buyer, and their servants, retired to a booth together; the former to treat his customer with a bottle, and the latter to spend the " luck-penny," which, on such occasions, he was \vont to say, would burn a hole in his pocket before he got home. Both were men who were accustomed to drink deep — for old Cunningham liad sought to drown his sorrows in the bottle ; and what would have been death to another man, took no effect upon him. Sandy saw him swallo^\' glass after glass, without liis countenance betraying any s^mp'om of change, with vexation ; fo: he had ne.er before met with a superior, either at the bacchanalian board, or at aught else. But, as the liquor went round, the old men began to forget tlieir age, (and, for a time, for the first time, Walter Cun- ningham forgot his sorrows,) and they boasted of what they had done; and forgetful that each was above threescore they were ever and anon about to profess what they could still do ; but, on such occasions, Anne Reed, who sat by her father's elbow, gently and unobserved, admonished him. Now, when Sandy found that he might not speak of wliat he could do, he thought there could be no harm in saying whrtt his adopted son Patrick could do. lie offered to match him at anything against any man in Berwickshire, yea, in all Scotland. The blood of old Cunningham boiled at the bravado. lie said he had had three sons — yea, he hoped to have said four — any of whom would have stopped the boasting, and taken up the challenge of his Northumbrian friend. But he said he had still a nephew, and he woula risk him against Sandy's champion. " A bargain be it," cried Sandy, and the young men pro- ceeded to various trials of strength ; but the ne])hew of Cun- ningham, though apparently a strong man, was as a weaned child in the hands of young Patrick. Their countrymen, on both sides, became enraged, and it soon became a national quarrel. Scores were engaged on eitlier side — knives were drawn and blood spilt ; and headmost in the fray, but un- armed, was Sandy Reed, striking to the ground every one on whom his hand fell. But at length he fell, pierced by a knife, by the edge of a pool of water, and his last words were — " Revenge me, Patrick — protect my Anne — mine is yours I" When weapons were exhibited, young Patrick drew one also, and he dealt a wound at every blow. When he heard the voice of his foster-father, he held the aged Cunningham by the throat, and his hand was uplifted to avenge his pro- tector's death by the sacrifice of the old man's — when a loud, a hurried, and a wild voice cried aloud — "Hold, parricide I hold ! — he against whom your hand is raised is your father !" It was the voice of Barbara Moor. The young man s arms fell by his side as if a palsy had smitten them. He remembered the voice of the sibyl. " What say ye !" cried the agonised old man — " who is my son ? — how shall I know him ?" For he, too, rememberetl her and well. " He whose hand his been raised against your life," she cried, " and on whose bosom ye will remember and find the mark of a berry ! Farewell ! — farewell !" she added — " I am childless — ye are not." She had been wounded in the conflict as she rushed forward, and she sank down and died. We might lengthen our story with details ; but it would be fruitless. In young Patrick, old Cunningham found his long lost son; with her last breath Barbara Moor acknowledged how she had decoyed him from the tent, at the fair, where his father had left him ; and how, when she saw Sandy Reed asleep upon the moor, she had administered to the child a sleeping draught, and laid him upon his breast, ^'ain would it be to describe the joy of the old man, and as vait. would it be to speak of the double chagrin of the nephew, who lost not only his laurels during the day, but also his ho])e of riches. Anne sorrowed many days for her fathei ; but gave her hand to him who, in compliance with her re- quest, his father continued to call Patrick ; and the fountain by the side of which her father fell is still kno« n in the village of Whitsome by the name of RcecTs Well; and, on account of the life lost, and the blood ,shed on that occasion Whitsome fair has been prohibited unto this dsy. , <»>-*?= W 1 L S O N'S JiltjJtonral, flTratitttonarj), nnti 3iinnc);matuj .ES OF THE BOIIDEIIS. PERSEVERANCE; OR, THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OK RODERIC GRAY. JoimTEOus rciidcr, tliou must be aware tliat there is no virtue u'liieh conforretli greater hoiielits upon ils possessor, than tlie virtue of perseverance. It ean sealeprecipiees, over- top niDUutains, encompass seas. Perseverance is a mighty conqueror ; it fighteth against odds, and neither turneth its back nor is disniaj-cd. Its progi-ess may be slow, but in the end it is sure. As a snail ascendeth a perpendicular wall, it may fall or he driven back to the ground, but it will renew (he attempt. It suifcrcth longer than charity, and hence came tjie adage, that " They who look for a silk gown always get a sleeve o't." It has been said, "Great is trutli, and it »vill prevail ;" and in addition thereunto, I would say, "Great is perseverance, for it also will prevail." The motto of every man should be — '' nil dcspciaiiduiit." Everyone should re- member, tliat real honour and esteem do not seek a man on (vhom they are to alight — the man must seek them; must win them, and then wear them. Instead, however, of detaiuiiig the reader with dull and general remarks on perseverance, I shall at once lay before them a copy of the autobiography of Roderic Gray, whose oistory will illustrate its eftVcts in particulars : — I was the son of poor but of honest parents. (AVith this "itereotvped piece of history concerning poverty and honesty, Roderic Gray began his autobiography.) Yes, I repeat that niv father and my mother were very poor, but they were sterlingly honest. They had a numerous family, and many privations to contend with ; and the first thing I remember of my father was, a constant, I may say a daily expression of his — " Set a stout heart to a steep brae." Another great jiiirase of his, when any of us were like to be beaten by ought that we were attempting was — " Try it again — never to beat — step-by step brings the mountain low." Bly mo- 'hcr was of a disposition precisely similar to my father. Almost the first thing I remember of her, is, what was her favourite expression — " Try it again, as your faither says — practice makes perfilcness."* These expressions of mv honoured parents were the rudi- ments of ray education. They left an impression upon my heart, and upon mv brain, before I was sensible of what an impression was. There is often a great deal more conveyed through a single sentence, than we are apt to imagine. Our future destiny may be swayed by the hearing of one little word, and that word may be spoken in our hearing at a very early period of our lives. iMany a father, when years began to sobei aown the buoyant tumult of his spirits, has won- dered at, and grieved over the disposition and actions of his son, marvelling whence they came ; whereas the son receiv- ed the feelings which gave birth to such actions, wliile he >vas Iiut an infant, from the lips of his father, as he heard that father recount the deeds, the exploits, the feats of bra- very of his young manhood. From the hour that a child begins to notice the objects around it, or to be sensible of Kind or of harsh treatment, from that moment every one who takes it in their anns, every object around it, become its instructors. I find [ am digressing from my autobiography. 4J. Vol. 1. • Pirfrciion. hut I shall go on with it by and by, and as I have meirtioned the subject of education, I shall say a few more words upon that suliject, and especially on the education of the young, which, though it detain the reader for a short space from my history, will neither be uninstructive nor witlioi'.t intrrcst. Some years ago, I met with a modern Jol), who said he had read througli the large edition of Johnson's Dictionary and I do regret, with considerable sincerity, having neglected to ask the gentleman whether, in the course of his highly en- tertaining reading, he met with any word so murdered, but- chered, abused, and misunderstood, as the poor polysyllable- education. JMany wise people conceive it to signify many multitudes of words — of dead wonls and of living words, of words without symbols ; or, in plain language, they say, (or they act as if they said,) that education means to make a man's head a portable lexicon of all languages. This is what they term the education classical. Some very wise men go a step farther with the meaning of the term. They shake their heads in contempt at the mere word-men. They min- gle more of utility with their idea of the signification. They maintain thateducation meaneth also certain figures, whereby somethingisle.arncd concerning poundsand pence, andsquare inches and solid inches. Here the general idea of education terminates; and this is the education mercantile and mathe- matical. There are, however, a third class of philosophic;dly wise men, who affirm that education meaneth the macada- mizing, on a small scale, of blue stones and gi'ay ones; in describing comets with tails, and planets without tails ; in making the invisible gases give forth light in darkness, as the invisible mind lighteth mortality. This is the education scientific. Thus the artilleryof allthe three isdirectedagainst the he.ad. The head is made a gentleman, a scholar, a phi losopher, wliile the poor heart is suffered to remain in a slate of untutored, uncared for, barbarity and ignorance. And in all this parade, concerning what education in reality imports, it is overlooked, that the heart from whence all evil proceeds — the heart where all good is received — is the soil where the first seeds of education ought to be so^^■Tl, watered, watched over, pruned, and roared with tenderness. And it is not until the heart has become a sturdy savage, hardened in ig- norance, that any attempts are made to curb it within the limits of moral obligation. A more insane idea cannot bf conceived by a rational man, than supposing that education begins by learning to know that one letter is called A, a se- cond B, and a third C. Education begins with the first glance which the mother bestous upon her child, in answer to its first smile. Before the infant has lisped its first word, the work of education has made progress. The mother is the first, the fondest, the most imjiortant and responsible teacher. It is hers to draw out the j-oungsoul, which dreams in the smiles and the laughing eyes of her infant — it is hers to subdue, and in gentleness to root up the first germ of evil that springsinto existence — it is hers to unfold, by a thousand ways and a thousand tendernesses, which a mother's heart only can conceive, and a mother's eye only can express, the first shadows of right and of \vrong — it is hers to te.aih feel- ings of love, of gentleness, and gi-atitude ; to give a direction and a colouring to the embryo passions which shall mark the future chaiacter and destiny of her yet sucking chihl. Nor is there an object upon earth more worthy the admiration, we haA almost said the envj- of an angel, than a Christian sao TALES OF THE BORDERS. mother gazing, in tlic cleptii of her atrection, upon the TDabe of her l)()som, watching its faculties expand like youn^ flowers — bending them to tlie sun of truth, gently as the linnet bends tlie twig where it thrills its liltle song to cheer its partner. But, when the infant leaves the lap of its mother, and other duties divide her care, it is then necessary that a teacher, equally affectionate, and equally ellicient, be provided ; for children seek, and will find, teachers of good or of evil in every scene, and in every playmate. It is now that the In- fant fc'chool must mature the education wliicli the mother has, or ouglit to have begun. Some disciple of moth-eaten cus- toms, whose ideas are like the flight of a bat, and whose ima- gination is hung round with cobwebs, may snail out his mouthfnls of broken humanity, and inquire — what could be learned by infants of two or of five years of age, to com- pensate for blighting their ruddy cheeks like tender plants in E frost-wind, by mewing them up and crowding them toge- her within the dismal walls of a noxious school-rooBi, through 1 Dumfrusshirp. Ncltiwer «;is lie wluit some would c.ill a etronrf-niinJed man, nor did he knmv mutli of uliat tlic world calls cdu cation ; Imt if ho did not know what education was, he knew what the want of it w;is, and he was resolved that that was a knowU'dpjo which his children should never acquire. It was therefore his aniliition to make them scho- lars to the extent of his means. l!ut. when I state that his income did not exceed six shillings, you will aj;ree wilh me that those means were not great. Hut mv fatlicr's maxim — persevere, carried him over every ditliculty. \\'hcn my Diother had said to him, as a quarter's wages hecame due — " Robin, I will never he aide to stand thir bairns' schooling — sae mony o' them is a perfect ruination to me." "• Nonsense, Jenny," he would have said, in his own half-laughing, good-natured way ; " the back is aye made fit for the burden. Just try another quarter, though we have to be put to our shifts to make it out. I'm no feared but that we will make it out someway or other. We have always done it yet, and what we have done, we can do again. Let us give them all the schooling we can, poor things ; and the day vvill come when they will thiuik us, or mair than thank us, for all that we have wared upon them. O Jenny, woman 1 had I been a scholar, as I am not, instead of being the wife of a labouring man the day, ye would have been luv wife — but a lcd- ing my hands as he spoke. " All !" said I, " there is no nece.ssity for thanks ; I am a plain, blunt person. I did not know you personally in the place of my nativity, but I reme>i:iber having seen you. I remember also ycmr friends ; and as a townsman, it will give me pleasure to know that I can be of service to you." TAT.KS OF THE BORDERS. I^saii fjr:iS|.pa my liniul, i^uil he shook it as triougli he iNooKl have taken it from the elliow. I was certain tliat lie Koulil obtain the situation wliieh I liad in view (or him. W'e sat down together — we talked of old times, when th(.' fec^lings of our hearts were young ; and, amongst otlier tliiiigs, wc spoke of Jessy 5[ortimer. I sat — I drank witli him — we became bajipy together — wc becMnu^ mail together. .My .Jessy — Jessy iMorlinier was before me. liir [ireseiice filled my thoughts— it overshadowed me. I couhl think of nothing else — I could speak of nothing else. 1 drank to iier in bumpers; but I'sau sat as calm as a judge with the black cap upon his hea upon the streets at midnight, ' I will persevere." I was glad to accept of employment as copying clerk to a taw stJitioner, at a salary of seven shillings a-week. It was ". .^mal! s'un, and I hare often thoughtlessly wasted many I'S the amount since ; but it maib lappy XV^ llieli. It snatched, or rather it bought from the gri|pn. W I L S N'S ?l|iiEttortcal, STrntitttonari), anli Smastnatfbe fH^ TALES OF THE BORDERS EDMUND AND HELEN. A METRICAL TALE. Cnnto J?ir6t. Come, sit thee by me, love, and thou shalt heat A tale may win a smile and claim a tear — A plain and simple story, told in rhyme. As sanouglit it, as the rill Seeketh the valley or the ocean's breast ; And, ero his very wishes wore expressed, She strove to trace their meaning in his eyes, Even as a seaman readeth on the skies 'ITie coming breeze, the calm, or brooding gale, Then spreads the canvass wide, or reefs the sail. Nor did he doubt, that still her heart was free As the fleet mountain deer, which as a sea The wilderness surrounds ; for she had grown Up as a desert flower, that he alone Had watched and cherished ; and the blinding pride Of wealth and ancestry, had served to hide. From him alone, what long within tlie vale Had been the rustic gossip's evening talc. That such presumptuous love could e'er employ The secret fancies of the cottage boy He would have held impossible — or smiled At the bold madness of a thought so wild — Heading his daughter's spirit by his own. Which reared an ancient name as virtue's throne And only stooped to look on meaner things. Whose honours echoed not the breath of kings. XI. Wild were the passions — fierce the anguisli now, Which tore the very soul, and clothed the brow Of the Enthusiast ; — while gaunt Despair, Its heavy, cold, and iron hand laid bare. And in its grasp of torture clenched his heart, Till, one by one, the life-drops seemed to start In agony unspeakable ; — within His breast its freezing shadow — dark as Sin, Gloomy as Death, and desolate as Hell, Like starless midnight on his spirit fell. Burying his soul in darkness ;— while his Love, Fierce as a whirlwind, in its madness strove With stem Despair, as on the field of wTatli The wounded warhorse, panting, strives with Death. Then as the conflict weakened, Hope would dash Across his bosom, like the death-winged flash That flees before the thunder ; yet its L'ght, Lived but a moment, leaving deeper night Around the strife of passions ; and again The struggle maddened, and the hope was vain. XH. He heard the maidens of the valley say, How they, upon their ladv's wedding-day, AVould strew her path with flowers, and o'er the lawn Join in the dance, to eve from early da^^^l ; While, with a smile and half-deridjnfr glance, Some sought him as their partner in the dance : And peasant railers, as he passed them by. Laughed — whispered — laughed again, and mocked a sigh. 15ut he disdained them ; and his hea^nng breast Had no room left to feel their vtilgar jestj For it ran o'er with agony and scorn. As water dropping on a rock, was homo XIIL 'Twas a fair summer night, and the broad moon bailed in calm glory tlirough the skies of June ; Pouring on earth its pale and silv'ry light, Till ruujjhest fonns were softened to tlie sight ; And on the westren hills its faintest ray Kissed the jet ruddy streaks of parted day. 'Jhe stars were lew, and twinkling, dimly shone, For the bright moon in beauty reigned alone ; One cloud lay slee[)iiig 'ncath the breathless sky, Bathed in the limpid light ; while, as the sigh Of secret love, silent as shadows glide. The soft wind played among the leafy pride Of the green trees, and scarce the aspen shook ; A babbling voice was heard from every brook ; And down the vale, in murmurs low ;uid long, Tweed poured its ancient and unwearied song. Before, behind, around, afar and near. The wakcfui landrail's watchword met the ear. '1 hen Edmund leaned against the liallowed tree. Whose shade had been their temple, and where he Had carved their names in childhood, ;uid tliey vet Upon the rind were visible. They met Beneath its branches spreading like a bower. For months — for years ; and the irapassionc>d houi Of silent deep dcliciousness, and bliss Pure as an angel's — fervid as the kiss Of a young mother on her first-born's brow — Fled in their depth of joy, they knew not how ; Even as the Boreal meteor mocks the eye, Living a moment on the gilded sky. And dying in the same, ere we can trace Its golden hues, its form, or hiding place. But now to him each moment dragged a chain. And time itself seemed weary. The fair plain, Where the broad river, in its pride, was seen. With stately woods and fields of loveliest green To him was now a wilderness ; and even Upon the everlasting face of heaven A change had passed — its very light was changedj And shed forth sickness ; for he stood estranged From all that he had loved, and every scene Spoke of despair where love and joy had been. Thus desolate he stood, when, lo ! a sound Of voices and gay laughter echoed round. Then, straight a party issued from the wood. And, ere he marked them, all before him stood. He gazed — he startled — shook — exclaimed aloud, " Helen !" — then bui'st away ! and as a sluoud The sombre trees concealed him ; but a cry Of sudden anguish, echoed a reply To his wild word of misery, though tie Heard not its tone of heart-pierced agony. She, whom his fond soul worshipped as its bride He saw before him, by her wooer's side, ]\Iidst other proud ones ; — 'twas a sight like death — - Death on his very heart ! — The balmv breath Of the calm night struck on his brow with fire ; For each fierce passion, burning in its ire. Raged in his bosom as a with'ring flame. And scarce he knew he madly breathed her name ; But, as a bark before the tempest tossed, Eushed from the scene, exclaiming Avikllv — " Lost '" XIV. Two days of sorrow slowly round had erect And Helen lonely in her chamber wept ; Shunning her father's guests, and shunning, too. The glance of rage and sconi, which now he threw Upon the clxild that e'er to him liad been Dear as immortal hope, when o'er the scene Of humr^n life death, slow as twilight, lowers; — She was tlie sunlight of his widowed houis — The all he loved — the glory of his eye — His hope bv day— the sole remaining tie That linked lijm with the world ; and rudely now That Unli seemed broken ; and upon his brow 340 TALES OF THE BORDERS. Wrath lay in gloom; while, fiom his very feet, Me spurned the being he was wont to meet With outstretched arms of fondness and of pride, AVhile all the father's feelings in a tide Of transport gushed. But now she wept alone, Shunning and shunned ; and still the hitter tone In which she heard her Edmund breathe her name, Rang m her hea-snng bosom ; and the flame That lit his eye with frenzy and despair. Upon her naked spirit seemed to glare With an accusing glance ; yet, while her fears Were flowing silently, as hours and years Flow down the tide of time, one whom she loved, And who from childhood still had faithful proved. Approached her weeping, and within her hand A packet placed, as Edmund's — last command ! Wild throbbed her heart, and tears a moment fled. While, tremblingly, she broke the seal, and read — Then wept, and sobbed aloud, and read again. These farewell words, of passion and of pain. XV. Edmund's letter. Helen \—j'areivcU! — I write but could not speak That parting word of bitterness ; — the cheek Grows pale when the tongue utters it ; — the knell AVhich tells — ' the grave is ready !' and doth swell On the dull wind, tolling — ' the dead — the dead !' Sounds not more desolate. It is a dread And fearful thing to be of hope bereft, As if the soul itself had died, and left The body linng — feeling in its breast The death of deaths its everlasting guest ! Such is my cheerless bosom — 'tis a tomb Where Hope lies buried in eternal gloom, And Love mourns o'er it — yes, my Helen — Love — Like the sad wailings of a widowed dove Over its rifled nest. Yet blame me not, That I, a lowly peasant's son, forgot The gulf between our stations. Could I gaze Upon the glorious sun, and see its rays Fling light and beauty round me, and remain Dead to its power, while on the lighted plain The humblest weed looked up in love, and spread Its leaves before it ! — The vast sea doth wed The simple brook ; the bold lark soars on high. Bounds from its humble nest and woos the sky ; Yea, the frail ivy seeks and loves to cling Round the proud branches of the forest's king ; Then blame me not ; — thou wilt not — cannot blame : Our sorrows, hopes, and joys, have been the same — Been one from childhood ; but the dream is past. And stem realities at length have cast Our fates asunder. Yet, when thou shalt see Proud ones before thee bend the suppliant knee. And kiss thy garment while they woo thy hand, Spurn not the peasant l)oy who dared to stand Before thee, in the raptiire of his heart, And woo thee as thine equal. Courtly art May find more fitting phrase to charm thine ear. But, dearest, mayst thou find them as sincere ! And, oh ! by every past and hallowed hour ! By the lone tree that formed our trysting bower ! By the fair moon, and all the stars of night, That round us threw love's holiest, dearest light ! By infant passion's first and burning kiss ! By every witness of deputed bliss ! Forget me not ! — loved one ! — Forget me not ! For, oh, to know that I am not forgot — That thou wilt still retain within thy breast Some thought of hiiu who loved you first and bust — To know but this, would in my bosom he Like one faint star seen from the pathless sea By the bewildered mariner. Once more, JIaid of my heart — farewell ! A distant shore Must be thy Edmund's home — though where the soul Is as a v.'ildcrness — from pole to pole The desolate in heart may ceaseless roam. Nor find on earth that spot of heaven — a home ! But be thou happy ! — be my Helen blessed ! — Thou wilt be happy ! Oh ! those words h;ive pressed Thoughts on my brain on which I may not dwell ! Again, farewell ! — my Helen, fare-thee-well i" XVI. A gallant bark was gliding o'er the seas. And, like a living mass, before the breeze. Swept on majestic, as a thing of mind Whose spirit held communion with the wind , Rearing and rising o'er the billowed tide, As a proud steed doth toss its head in pride. Upon its deck young Edmund silent stood — A son of sadness ; and his mournful mood Grew day by da)', while wave on wa.\e rolled by. And he their homewajd current with a sigh Followed with fondness. Still the vessel Iwre The wanderer on-\vard from his native shore. Till in a distant land he lonely stood 'Midst city crowds in more than solitude. XVII. There long he wandered, without aim or plan, Tin disappointment whispered — act as vu:n J But, though it cool the fever of the brain. And shake, untaught, presumption's idle reign. Bring folly to its level, and bid hope Before the threshold of attainment stop ; Still — when its blastings thwart our every scheme, When humblest wishes seem an idle dream. And the bare bread of life is half denied — Such disappointments humble not our pride: But they do change the temper of the soul — Change every word and action — and enrol The nobler mind with things of basest name— With idleness, dishonesty, and shame ! It hath its hounds, and thus far it is well To check presumption — visions wild to quell ; Then, 'tis the chastening of a father's hand — All wholesome — aU expedient. But to stand Writhing beneath the unsparing lash, and be Trampled on veriest e;irth, while misery Stems the young blood, or makes it freeze with care. And on tlie tearless eyeballs writes — Despair ! Oh ! this is terrible ! — and it doth throw Ll^pon the broAv such early marks of wo That men seemed old ere they have well been young — Their fond hopes perish, and their hearts are wrung With such dark feelings — misanthropic gloom. Spite of their natures, haunts them to the tomb. XVIII. Now, Edmund 'midst the bustling throng appears One old in wretchedness, though young in years , For he had struggled with an angry world. Had felt misfortune's billows o'er him hurled, And strove against its tide — where wave meets wave Like huge leviathans sporting wild, and lave Their mountain breidiers round with circling sweej>, Till, drawn mthin the vortex of their deep. The man of ruin stniggloth — but in vain; liiko dying swimmers who, in breathless pain Despairing, strike at random ! — It would be A subject worth the schoolnien's si-iutiny TALES OF THE BOKDElii*. 341 To trairit! — Leave me never I Finn — fixeon a wintry hill — Wild through his lieart rush want ami memory now, liike whirlwinds Tnccting on a mountain's brow; Slow in his veins the thin blood coldly creeps ; He starts, he dreams, and, as ho walks — he sleeps! He is a stranger — houseless, fainting, poor. Without the shelter of one friendly door ; The cold wind whistles through his garments bare. And shakes the night-dew from his freezing hair. You weep to hear his woes, and ask me why. When sorrows gathered and no aid was nigh, He sought not then the cottage of his birth. The peace and comforts of his father's hearth ? That also thou sh.alt hear. Scarce had he left His ])arents' home, ere ruthless fortune reft His friend and father of bis little all. Crops failed, and friends proved false; but, worse than all. The wife of his young love, bowed down with grief For her solo child, like an autumnal leaf Nipped by the fi'osts of night, drooped day by day,* As a fair morning cloud dissolves away. Her eyes were dimmed with tears ; and o'er her cheek Like a faint rainbow, broke a fitful streak. Coming and vanishing. She weaker grew. And scarce the half of their misfortunes knew. Until the law's stern minions, as their prey. Relentless seized the bed on which she lay. " 5Iy husband ! — Oh, my son !" she faintly cried — Sank on her pillow, and before them died ! Even they shed tears. The widowed husband, there. Stood like the stricken ghost of dumb despair ; Then sobbed aloud, and, sinking on the bed. Kissed the cold forehead of his sainted dead. Then went he forth, a lone and ruined man ; But, ere three moons their circling journeys ran, Pride, like a burning poison in his breast. Scorched up his life, and gave the ruined rest ; Yet not till he, with tottering steps and slow. Regained the vale where Tweed's fiiir waters flow : And there, where pines around the churchyard wave, lie breathed his last upon his partner's grave ! IL I may not tell what ills o'er Edmund passed — Enough to say, that fortune smiled at last. In the far land, where the broad Ganges rolls, ^Vhere Nature's bathed in glory — and the souls Of men alone dwell in a starless night, While all around them glows and lives in light — There now we find him, honoured, trusted, loved ; For, from the humblest stations, he had proved Faithful in all ; and trust on trust obtained. Till, if not wealth, he independence gwineA — Earth's noblest blessing, and the dearest given To man, beneath the sacred hope of heaven. And still, as time on silent pinions flew. His fortunes flourished and his honours grew ; But, as they grow, an anxious hope that long Had in his bosom been but as the song Of viewless echo, indistinct, and still Kceedini: from us. rrrew as doth a rill 312 TALES OF THE BORDERS. Embruccd Liy others and increasing ever. Till distant plains confess the sweeping river. And, need I say, that hope referred alone To her who in his hcait had fixed her throne, And reigned ■vvithin it still, the sovereign queen. Yet darkest visions oft would flit between Plis fondest fancies, as the thought returned That she for whom his soul still restless burned, Would be another's now, while haply he, Lost to her heart, would to her memory be As the remembrance of a pleasing dream. Vague and forgotten half, but which we deem "Worthy no waking thouglit. Thus years rolled by — Hope wilder glowed and brightened in his eye, Nor Icnew he why he hoped ; but, though despair The Enthusiast's heart may madly gi'asp, and glare Even on his soul, it may not long remain A dweller in his breast, for hope doth reign There as o'er its inheritance ; and he Lives in fond visions of futurit3\ III. Twelve slow and chequered years had passed. — Again A stately vessel ploughed the pathless main ; And waves, and days, together glided by. Till, as a cloud on the Enthusiast's eye, His island-home rose from the ocean's breast — A thing of strength, of glorj', and of rest — The giant of the deep ! — while on his sight Burst the blue hills, and cliffs of dazzling white— Stjonger than death ! and beautiful as strong ! Kissed by the sea, and worshipped with its song ! " Home of my fathers !" the Enthusiast cried ; " Their home — ay and their grave !" he said and sighed But gazing still upon its glorious strand, Again he cried- — " My own — my honoured land ! Fair freedom's home and mine ! Britannia ! hail ! Queen of the mighty seas ; to whom each gale From every point of heaven a tribute brings. And on thy shores earth's farthest treasure flings 1 l^and of my heart and birth ! at sight of thee My spirit boundeth, like a bird set free From long captivity ! Thy very air Is fragrant witli remembrance ! Thou dost bear, On thy Herculean cliffs, the rugged seal Of godlike Liberty ! The slave might kneel Upon thy shore, bending the willing knee, To kiss the sacred earth that sets him free ! Even I feel freer as I reach thy shore. And my soul mingles with the ocean's roar That hymns around thee ' Birth-place of the brave ! ]\Iy own — my glorious home ! — the very wave, Rolling in strength and beauty, leaps on high. As if rejoicing on thy beach to die ! My loved — my father-land ! thy faults to me Are as the specks wliich men at noon-tide see Upon the blinding sun, and dwindle pale ]3cneath thy virtue's and thy glory's veil. Land of my birth ! where'er thy sons may roam Their pride — their boast — their passport — is their home !' IV. 'Twas early spring; and winter lingered still (^n the cold summit of the snow-capt hill ; The day was closing, and slow darkness stole < )ver the earth as sleep steals on the soul, Sealing the eye-lids up — unconscious, slow. Till sleep and darkness reign, and we but know On waking, that we slept ; but may not tell — Nor marked we when sleep's darkness on us fell. A lonely stranger then bent anxious o'er A rustic gate before tlie cottage dour — The snow-white cottage where the chestnut? grew, And o'er its roof their arching branches tlirev.-. It was young Edmund, gazing, through his tears. On the now cheerless home of e?s\y years — While as the grave of buried joys it stood. Its white walls shadowed through the leafless uooii J The once arched woodbine waving wild and baie ; The parterre, erst the object of his care, ^\'itll early weeds o'ergro-.\n ; and slow decay Had cnanged or swept all else he loved away. Upon the sacred threshold, once his own, lie silent stood, unwelcomed and unknown ; Gazed, sighed, and turned away ; then sadlv straveil To the cold, dreamless churchyard, where iverc laid His parents, side bv side. A change had come O'er all that he had loved ; — his home was dumb, And through the vale no accent met his ear That he was wont in early days to hear ; While childhood's scenes fell dimly on his view. As a dull picture of a spot we knew. Where we but cold and lifeless forms can trace. But no bold truth nor one familiar face. V. Night sat upon the graves, like gloom to gloom As silent treading o'er each lowly tomb, Thoughtful and sad, he lonely strove to trace. Amidst the graves, his father's resting place. And well the spot he knew ; yea, it alone Was all now left that he might call his own Of all that was his kindred's ; and, althnush lie looked for no proud monument, to shew 'i'lie tomb he sought, yet mem'ry marked the spot AV'here slept his ancestors ; and had it not, He deemed — he felt — that, if his feet but trode Upon his parents' dust, the voice of God, As it of old flashed through a prophet's breast. Would in his bosom whisper — " Here they re.-^t !" 'Twas an Enthusiast's thought ; — but, oh ! to tread, With darkness round us, midst the voiceless dead. With not an eye but Heaven's upon our face — At such a moment, and in such a place. Seeking the dead we love ; who would not feel, Yea, and believe as he did then ; and kneel On friend or father's grave, and kiss the sod As in the presence of our father's God ! VII. Ho reached the spot ;^he startled — trembled — wept; And through his bosom wildest feelings swept. He sought a nameless grave, but o'er the place ^\'here slept the generations of his race, A marble pillar rose ! — " O Heaven !" he cried, " Has avaricious Ruin's hand denied The parents of my heart a grave with those Of their own kindred ? — Have their ruthless foes Grasped this last, sacred spot we called our own .'' If but a weed upon that grave had grown I ivovdd have honoured it ! — have called it brother ! Even for my father's sake, and thine, my mother ! But that cold marble freezes up mv heart And seems to tell me that I have no part With its proud dead ; while through the veil of night. The name it bears yet mocks my anxious sight." Thus cried he bitterly ; then, trembling, placed His fingers on the marble, while he traced Its letters one by one, and o'er and o'er ; — Grew blind with eagerness, and shook the more, As with each touch, the feeling o'er him came — • The unseen letters formed his father's name ' VII. While thus, with beating heart, pursuing still His anxio\is task slow o'er a nei'jhbouriri'i hill TALES OF THE BORDERS. 343 The hrond nioim rose, l>v not .1 cloud concoalod, hit up tlic valley, and tlic toiul) revealed ! — His pareuts' tomb ! — and now, with wild sur]irise, He saw tiie column hurst upon his eyes — Fair, cliabte, and beautiful ; and on it read These lines in mem'ry of his honoured dead — " Beneath repose the virtuous and the just, IMui^'led in deatli, affection's hallowed dust. In token of their worth, this simple stone, Is, as a daujjhter's tribute, reared by one AVho loved them as such, and their name would save As virtue's record o'er their lowly i^rave." " Helen !" he fondly cried, " tliv hand is here !" And the cold grave received his burning tear ; Then knelt he o'er it — clasped his hands in prayer — But, while yet lone and fervid kneeling there, Before his eyes, upon the grave appear Primroses twain — the firstlings of the year, And bursting forth between the blossomed two, Twin opening buds in simple beauty grew. He gazed — he loved them as a living thing ; And wondrous thoughts and strange imagining Those simple fiowers spoke to his listening soul In superstition's whispers; whose control The wisest in their secret moments feel, And blush at weakness they may not reveal. VIII. He left the place of death ; and, rapt in thought. The trysting-tree of love's young years he sought ; And, as its branches opened on his sight, B.ithing tlieir young buds in the pale moonlight, A whispered voice, melodious, soft, and low. As if an angel mourned for mortal wo, Borne on the ev'ning breeze, came o'er his ear ; — He knew the voice — his heart stood still to hear ! And each sense seem'd a list'ner ; but his eye Sought the sad author of the wand'ring sigh ; And 'neath the tree he loved, a form as fair As summer in its noon-tide, knelt in prayer. He clasped his hands — his brow — his bosom burned — He felt the past — the buried past returned ! Still, still he listened, till, like words of llame. Through her low prayer he heard his whispered luime ! " Helen !" he wildly cried — " my own— my blest !" Then bounded forth. — I cannot tell the rest. There was a shriek of joy ; — heart throbbed on heart, And hands were locked as though they ne'er might part ; Wild words were spoken — bliss tumultuous rolled, And all the anguish of the past was told. IX. U])on her love long had her father frowned, Till tales of Edmund's rising fortunes found Their way across the wilderness of sea, And readied the valley of his birth. But she, AVith truth unaltered, and with heart sincere. Through the long midnight of each hopeless year That marked his absence, shunned the protfered hand Of wealth and rank ; and met her sire's command With tears and bended knees, until his breast Again a father's tenderness confessed. X. 'Twas IMay — bright May — bird, flower, and shrub, and tree, Rejoiced in light ; while, as a waveless sea Of living music, glowed the clear blue sky And every flaecy cloud that floated by Appeared an isle of song ! — as all around. And all above them echoed with the sound Of joyous birds, in concert loud and sweet, Chanting tlieir summer hyirns. Beneath their feet Tlie daisy put its crimson liv'ry on ; While from beneath each crag and mossy stone, Some gentle (lower looked forth ; and love and iife Through the (!rentor's glorious works were rife, As though his Spirit in the sunbeams said — " Let there be life and love !" and was obeyed. Then, in the valley danced a joyous throng. And happy voices sang a bridal song ; Yea, tripping jocund on the sunny green, The old and young in one glad dance were seen ; Loud o'er tlie plain tlieir merry music rang. While cripple graiidami's smiling, sat and s.ang The ballads of their yi'!D'tortfnI, arrntn'tt'onnvi}, ant) Smnsinnttbc TALES OF THE BORDERS. HOGKR GOLDIE'S NARRATIVE. A TALE OF THE FALSE ALARM. "Yn liave heard of the falso alarm, (said Roger Goldie,) which, for the space of Avclhiigh four and twenty hours, filled tlie counties upon the 15onler witii exceeding great conster- nation, and at the same time called forth an example of general and devoted heroism, and love of country, sudi as is tmwhere recorded in the annals of any nation upon the iaco of the glohe. Good cause have I to remenahcr it; and were I to live a thousand years, it never would be effaced from my recollection. What first gave rise to the alarm, I liave not hccn ahle clearly to ascertain unto this day. There was a house-heating up beside Preston, with feasting and dancing ; and a great light., iii^e that of a llambeau, proceeded from the onstead. Now, some say that tlie man that kept tlie beacon on llownamlaw, mistook the light for the signal im Dunselaw; and the man at Dunsciaw in his turn, seeing Jlownam ilare up, lighted his fires also, and speedily the red burning al])l'.ahct of war blazed on every hill top — a spirit Kcemed to fly from mountain to mountain, touching their summits with fire, and writing in the flame the word — inva- sWiii ! Others say that it arose from the individual who kept watch at Hume Castle being deceived by an accidental fire over in Noilhumberland; and a very general supposition is, that it arose from a feint on the part of a great sea-admi- lal, which he made in order to try the courage and loyalty of the nation. To the last report, however, I attach no credit. The fable informs us, tliat the shepherd laddie lost his sheep, because he cried, "The wolf!" when there was no wolf at hand ; and it would have been policy similar to his, to have cried, " An invtiswn .'" when there was no invasion. Neither nations nor individuals like such practical jokes. It is also certain that the alarm was not first given by the bea- cons on the sea-coast ; and there can be no doubt that the mistake originated either at Ilownamlaw or Hume (!astle. I recollect it was in the beginning of February 1804. I occupied a house then about half a mile out of Dunse, and lived comfortably, and I will say contentedly, on the interest of sixteen hundred pounds which I had invested in the funds; and it repearance of Jonathan, that a stranger joined our ranks in ills strad. He took his jihice close by my side. He carried a firelnck over his shoulder, anriiii ffKi not .t-riirn. I thoui^lit tlia ;i!o mif;ht liiivo overcome tlii.' huUlio, mill tliiit lu' li:i(l gone out niui liiiii down in a stiito of sicknt'ss ; ami " 'I'ljiit," thotiiriit I, " will t)e a becotiiiiig sliite tor nio to take Iiini luinie in to his distressed mother. Or it will cause us to stop a night upon the road." ]My anxiety became insuppnrlahle, and I aj^ain left mv comrades, and went out to seek iiim. 1 souj^lit him in every street, in every piihlic-house in the town, amongst the sol- diers, ami amongst the townspeo])le ; but all were too much •iccnpird in discussing tlie cause of the alarm, to notice him who was to me as the ap])lo of my eye. For three liours I wandered in search of him, east, west, north, and south, making inquiries at every one I met; but no one had seen or heard tell of him. 1 saw the coach drive off for l)uid)ar. I l)elield also my comrades muster (ju the following morning, niul pre])are to return himie, but I wandered up and down disconsolate, seeking my son, but finding him not. The most probable, and the fondest conjecture that I rould indulge in, was, that he had returned home. I, there- fore, shouldered my musket, and followed my companions to Dunse, whom I overtook upon the moors. It would bo im- ])ossible for me to describe my feelings by the way — they were torture strained to its utmost extremity, and far more gloomy and dreary than the gloomiest and dreariest parts of the moors over which we had to pass. Every footstep in- creased my anxiety, every mile the perturbation and agony of my spirit. Never, I believe, did a poor parent endure such misery before, and I wislied that I had never been one. I kept looking for him to the right and to the left every miiuite ; and though it was but few travellers tjiat we met upon the road, every one that we did meet I described him to them, and asked them if they had seen him. But. " No'" " No !" was their unvaried answer, and my wretchedness increased. At length we arrived at Dunse, and a great crowd was there to meet us — wives to welcome their husbands, parents to greet their children, and children their parents. The first tliat my eyes singled out, was a sister of my Agnes. She ran up to me. " Roger," she cried, " hae ye seen onything o' Robie?" The words went through my breast as if it had received tlie fire of a whole French battalion. 1 stood stock-still, petrified with despair. My looks told my answer to her question. " Oh, dear me ! dear me !" I heard her cry ; " what will bis puir mother do noo — for she already is like anc clean out o" her judgment about him." I did not stop for the word ' halt," or for the breaking f)f the lines ; and I went home, I may say by instinct, for neither bird, bush, house nor tree, man nor bairn, was I capable of discerning by the road. Grief and heart-bursting .anxiety were as scales upon my eyes. I remember of rush- ing into the house, throwing down my gun, and crying — ■'O Agne.s' Agnes I" And as well do I remember her impatient and piteous inquiry — " Where is my Robie ? — Oh, where is my son ? — hae ye no seen him .''" It was long before I could compose myself, so as to tell her all that Tkncw concerning him ; and it was even longer before she was sufficiently calm to comprehend me. Never did unhappy parents before experience greater bitterness of soul. ^ strove to comfort her, but she would not listen to my words ; for, oh, they were as the blind leading the blind ; we both were struggling in the slough of despair- — both were in the pit of dark, bewildering misery AVe sometimes sat loc>king at each other, like criminals wliose last hour is come ; and even when our grief wore itself into a " calm Rou^h," there was something in our silence as dismal and more hopeless than the silence of the grave itself. Put, every now and then, she would burst out into long, loud la- ivfiitations, mourniag and crying for "her son ! — her son !'' Often, too, did we sit, suppressing our very breath, b^teuiNg to every foot that ap[iroachcd, and as one disa]ipointiiirr, louder .and loulie wrung her bands the instant slie beheld me, and, in a tone that might have touched the heart of a stone, cried aloud — " Oh, my lost i lost bairn ! Ye Lae made a living grave o' yer mother's breast." I would have set off immediately for London, and from thence down to Chatham, to inquire for him there ; but the wind was favourable when the vessel sailed, and it was therefore certain, that, by the time I got back to Dunse, siie was at the place of her destination ; and, moreover, I had no certainty or assurance that he was on board. Therefore we spent another day in fruitless lamentations and tears, and in vain inquiries around our o^vn neighbourhood, and amongst his acquaintances. But my own heart yearned continuiiily, and his mother's moaning was unceasing in my ear, as the ticking of a spider, or the boating of a stop-watch to a person that is doomed to die. I could find no rest. I blamed myself for not pro- ceeding direct from Edinburgh to Chatham ; and, next day, I went down to Berwick, to take my place in the mail to London. By the way I met several of the yeomanry, who were only returning from Dunbar, where they had been sum- moned by the alarm ; and I found that Berwick also had been in arms. But taking my place on the mail, I proceeded, without sleep or rest, to London, and from thence hastened to Chatham. There again I found that the regiment which I sought was already half way down the Channel ; but 1 ascertained also that my poor thoughtless boy was one of the recruits, and even th.at was some consolation, although but a poor one. Again I returned to his mother, and told Iier of the tid- ings. They brought her no comfort, and, night and day, she brooded on the thought, of her fair son lying dead and mangled on the field of slaughter, or of his returning hel[>- less and wounded to his native land. And often it was wormwood to my spirit, and an augmentation of my own sorrows, to find that, in secret, she murmured against me as the author of her bereavement, and .as having instilled into my son a liking for a soldier's life. .She said it w.as all owing to my getting him, from the time that he was .able to read, to taivc the newspaper in his hand and read it aloud to my cronies, and in which there were accounts of nothing but wars and battles, of generals and captains, and Bonaparte, of whom enough was foretold and enough could be read in the Revelations. These murmurings grieved me the more, inasmuch as my mind was in no way satisfied that t.iey were without foundation. No man knew better thaii I did, how easily the twig is bent ; a passing breeze, the lighting of a bird upon it, m.ay do it; and as it'is bent, so the branch or ihe tree will be inclined. I, therefore, almost resolved not to jicrmit another newspaper to be brought within my door. 350 TALES OF THE BORDERS. But someliow or otliei, it Dccame more necessary than ever. Every time it came it -was like a letter from Robie ; and we read it from beginning to end, expecting always to hear Boniethin" of him or of his regiment. Even Agnes grew fond of it, and was uneasy on the Saturdays if the post- man was half-an-hour behind the time in bringing it. Full twelvemonths passed before wo received a letter from him ; and never will I forget the delightful sensations that cashed into my bosom at the sight of that letter. I trem- iiled from head to foot with joy. I knew his handwriting at the first glance, and so did his mother — just as well as if be had begun " dear parents" on the back of it. It was only to be a penny, and his mother could hardly got her hand into her pocket to give the copper to the postman, she shook so excessively with joy and with agitation, and kept saving to mc — " Eead Itoger ! read ! Oh, let me hear what my bairn says. I could hardly keep my hand steady to open it ; and, when I did break the seal, I burst into tears at the same moment, and my eyes became as though I were blind ; and still his mother continued saying to me — "Oh, read ! read !" Twice, thrice, did I draw my sleeve across my eyes, and at last I read as follows : — " 3Iy Dear Parents, — I fear that my conduct has caused you many a miserable day, and many a sleepless night. But, even for my offence, cruel as it has been, I trust there is forgiveness in a parent's breast. I do not think that I ever spoke of it to you, but, from the very earliest period that I could think, the wish was formed in my mind to be a soldier. When I used to be spelling over the History of Sir William "Wallace, ov the Lives of the Seven Champions of Christendom, I used to fancy myself Wallace or Saint George ; and I resolved, that when I lived to be a man, that 1 would be a soldier and a hero like them ; and I used to think what a grand thing it would be for you and my mother, and all my acquaintances, to be reading about me and my exploits! The continual talking about the war and the French, and of their intention to invade Britain, all strengthened my early desires. Often when I was reading the newspapers to you and your friends, and about the gal- lant deeds of any particular individual, though I used to read his name aloud to you, I always read it in to myself as though it were my own. I had resolved to enlist before the false alarm took place ; and, when you and the other volun- teers marched out of Dunso to Haddington, I could not resist the temptation which it offered of seeing and being present at a battle. About half-an-hour after you left the town, I followed ye, and, as ye are already aware, over- took poor Jonathan Barlowman, who had fallen behind the corps, in gi-eat distress, apparently both of body and mind. He seemed to be in a awither whether to return home, to follow ye, or to He down and die by the road. I knew him by the sound of the lamentation he was making, and, accosting him, I inquired — What is the matter wi' ye, Jonathan ? Has ony o' the French, concealed about the moors, shot ye already?' ' Oh,' he replied, ' I am ill — I am d3ang ! — -I am dying ! — I will give any money for a sub- stitute !' ' Gie me yer gun,' said I, ' and I will be 3-er dubstitute without money. ' A thousand blessings upon yer head, Robie, lad!' said he; ' ye shall hae my gun, and j'o may tak also m)' greatcoat and knapsack, for they only encumber me. Ye hae rescued a dying man.* I was nearly us tall as he ; and, though his coat was loose about me, when I got it on, and his musket over my shoulder, and felt that I was marching like an armed knight of old against the invaders of my country, I felt as proud as an emperor ; I would not have changed situations with a king. I overtook you, and you know the rest. At Haddington, the strong ale was too strong for me. I was also sorely mortified to find all my prospects of becoming a hero blasted. When, there- fore, you went out to take our- places in the coach to Dunbvir, I slipped out of the room, and .ndlng Jlr Barluwman.'j coat and gun in a closet in the house, I took the road for Edinburgh ; which city I reached within less than three hours ; and before I had been in it twentv minutes 1 was a soldier. I was afraid to write home, lest ye would take steps to buy me off. On the fourth day after my enlist- ing J. was landed at Chatham, wliere 1 was subjected to a perpetual drill ; and within tliirty hours after land- ing, 1 again embarked with my regiment ; and when 1 wished to have written, 1 had not an opportunity. Since then, 1 liave been in two general engagements and several skirmishes, in all of which I have escafied unwounded. I have found that to read of a battle, and to be engaged in a battle, are two very different things. The descrip- tion is grand, but the sight dismal. 1 trust that my behaviour as a soldier has been unimpeachable. It has obtained for me the notice of our colonel, who has promoted me to the rank of corporal, with the promise of shortly making me a sergeant ; and I am not without hopes, before the war is over, (of which there at present is no prospect,) of obtaining a commission ; though it certainly is not one in a thousand that has such fortune. IIo]>ing, therefore, my dear parents, that, under the blessing of Providence, this will find you well, as it leaves me, and that I will live to return to ask your forgiveness, I remain your afftctionate and duti- ful son, " RODERT GOLDIE." feucn was Robin's letter. " Read it again," said his mother — and I read it again ; and when I had done so, she took it in her hand and pressed it to her lips and to her breast, and wept for "her poor bairn." At last, in a tone ol despondency, she said — "But, oh, he doesna once particularly mention his mother's name in't." " He surely does," said I ; "I think he mentions Ui both." So I took the letter again into my hand, and, at the fiuil corner of the third page, I saw what I had not observed be- fore, the letters and words — " P.S. Turn over " " P.S." said his mother ; " who does that mean .'" " Oh !" said I, " it means nobody. It means that we have not read all the letter." '• Read it a', then — read it a' !" she cried. And I turned to the last page, on the fold above the direction, and read — " P.S. — But how am I to ask the forgiveness of my dear mother, for all the distress and anxiety that my folly and disobedience must have occasioned her. I start in my very sleep, and think that I bear her yearning and upbraiding If she knew how deep my repentance is, and how keen my misery for the grief which I have caused her, I would not have to ask her forgiveness twice. Dear father ! dear mother! — both, both of you forgive your thoughtless son." These last lines of his letter drowned us both in tearsk and, for the space of several minutes, neither of us were able to speak. I was the first to break silence, and I said — " Agnes, our dear Robin is now a soldier, and he seems to like that way of life. But I dislike the thought of his bein<» only a corporal, and I would wish to see him ap ofKcer. We have nobody in the world but him to care for He is our only son and heir, and I trust that all that we have will one day be his. Now, I believe that the matter of four or five hundred pounds will buy him a commission, and make him an oflicer, with a sword by his side, a sash round his waist, and a gold epaulette on his shoulder, with genteel pay and provision for life ; besides setting him on the high road to be a general. Therefore, if ye approve of it, I will sell out stock to the amount that will buy him a commission." "Oh," replied she, "ye nccdna ask me if I approve o' it ; weel do ye ken that I will approve o' on}-thing that will be for my bairn's benciit." TALES OF THE BORDEUS. 351 ^ nccnrdiT.tj y lifted five hundred pniimls, iiiul, tnrniinli the hidueiiee of ii I'arliaiiu'iil man, succoedeil in ])n)ciirMi;; liiin a CDininibsiim as an onsif^ii. I lli(m;;iit tin' nioricy well spent, HS it tended to promote the respectability and prospects of niv son. Four years afterwards, Ins mnllior and I liad llie satisfac- tion of reading in the puhlie papers, that he had heen ]iro- inoted to the rank of lieutenant ujion the field, for his hravery. On the following day wo received a letter from himself, confirming the tidings, which gave us great joy. Nevertheless, onr joy was mingled with fears ; for we were always a])prehensive that some day or other we would find his name among the list of killed and-wounded. And always (he first thing that his mother said to me, when I took up (he papers, was — " Head the list of the killed and wounded." \iid 1 always did so, with a slow, hesitating, and faltering /oice, fearful that the next I should mention would be that ■){ my son, Lieutenant Goldie. There was very severe lighting at the time ; and every post was bringing news concerning the war. One day, (I remem- ber it was a King's fast-day,) several neighbours and my- 'clf were leaning upon the dike, upon the footpath opposite to my house, and waiting for the postman coming from Ayton, to liear wliat was the news of tlic day. As he ap- proached us, I thought he looked very demure-like, which was not his usual ; for lie was as cheerful, active-looking a little man as you could possibly see. " Well, llughie," said I to him, holding out my hand for the papers, " ye look dull like to-day ; 1 hope ye have no tjad news?" " I would hope not, Jlr Goldie," said ho ; and, giving mc the ])aper, walked on. The moment that Agnes saw that I had got it, she came running out of the house, across the ro id, to hear, as usual, the list of the killed and wounded read, and my neighbours gathered round about me. There had been, 1 ought to tell ye, a severe battle, and both the French and our army Claimed the victorv ; from which we may infer, that there was no groat triumph on either side. ]5ut, agreeably to my wife's request, I first read over the list of the killed, wounded, and inisxing. I got over the two first mentioned ; but, oh ! at the very sight of the first name upon the missing list, I ( lasped my hands together, and the paper dropped upon the gronnd. •■ O Robie ! my son ! my son !' I cried aloud. Agnes uttered a piercing scream, and cried. " O my bairn ! — what has happened my bairn ? Is he dead ? Tell uie, is my Uobie dead .''" Onr neighbours gathered about her, and tried to comfort ne- ; but she was insensilile to all that they could say. The first name on the missing list was that of my gallant son. When tlie first shock was over, and I had composed myself a little, I also strove to console Agnes ; nut it was with great dillicolty that wo could convince her that Robin was uot dead, and that the papers did not say ho was wounded. " Oh, then !" she cried, " what do they say about him. Tell me at once. Roger Goldie ! how can yo, as the faither o' my bairn, keep me in suspense." "O, dear Agnes," said I, " endeavour, if it be jiossihle, to moderate your grief ; I am sure ye know that I would not keep ye in suspense if I could avoid it. The papers only say tliat Robin is amixxnig." " And what mean they by that ?" she cried. "Why," said 1 to her, " they mean that he, perhaps, pur- sued the enemy too far — or ]io>sibly that he may liave fallen into their hands, and be a prisoner — but that he had not cast U]) wlien the accounts came away." "Yes! yes!" she exclaimed, with great bitterness, 'and it perhaps means that his body is lying dead upon the field, but hasna been found." And she burst out into louder lamentations, and all our endeavours to ooniAnt her t\ ere in \ fiin ; though, in fact, my sulVcriiigs wert' almost as great as liers. We >vaite(lin the cU'epest anxiety for several aays,;dwa)-s hoping that we would hrar some tidings concerning him, but none came. I therefore wrote to the A\'.ir-<)IIiee, and 1 wrote also to his Colonel. From the War-Ollice I received a letter from :i clerk, saying that he w.-is commanded to in- form 1110, that they could give me no information relative to Ijieiitenaiit (j(dn that your daughter has liberated and gone away with, she has fallen upon her feet ; she has married a good, a kind, and a brave lad ; and, though I should be the last to say it. the son of an honest man, -who will leave him from five to sis thousand pounds, besides his commission." By the description which he gave me, I had no doubt but that my poor llobie, and the laddie who had run away with his daughter, (or, I might say, the laddie with whom his daughter had run away.) were one and the same person. 1 ran into the nest room, crying, " Agnes ! Agnes ' hear, ivoman I 1 have got news of Robic !" " News o' my bairn !" she cried, before she saw me. " Speak, Roger ! speak !" 1 could hardly tell her all that the French Count had told me, and I could hardly get her to believe what she heard. But I took her into the room to him, and he told her everything over agiiin. A hundred questions were asked backward and forward upon both sides, and there was not the smallest doubt, on eitlicr of our pwts, but that it was my Robie that his daughter had liberated from the prison, and run off with. " But oh, sir," said Agnes, " where are tliey now — b.iith o' ni}' bairns — as you say I have twa .'' Where ehall I find them ?" He said that he had but little doubt that they were safe for his daughter had powerful friends in France, and that as soon as a peace took jdace, (which he hoped would not be long,) we should all see them again. Well, the long-wishcd-for peace came at last — and in both countries the captives were released from the places of their imprisonment. 1 have already twice mentioned the infirm state of my wife's health ; and we were residing at Spittal, for the benefit of the sea air and bathing, and the Spa Wei!, (though it had not then gained its present fasliionable popu- larity,) when a post-chaise drove to the door of our lodgings. An elderly gentleman stepped off from the dicky beside the driver, and out of the chaise came a j'oung lady, a gentle- man, and two bonny bairns. In a moment I discovered the elderly gentleman to be my old friend the French Count But, oh ! how — bow shall I tell you the rest ! I had hardly looked upon the face of the j-ounger stranger, when I saw my own features in the countenance of my long lost Robic . The lady was his wife — the Count's bonny daughter ; and the bairns were their bairns. It is in vain for me to de- scribe to you the feelings of Agnes ; she was at firet speechless and senseless, and then she threw her arms round Robie, and she threw them round his wife, and she took his bairns on her knee — and, oh ! but she was proud at seeing herself a grandmother ! We have all lived together in happiness from that day to this ; and the more I see of Robie's wife, the more I think she is like an angol ; and so thinks his mother. I have only to inform you, that bold Jonathan Barlo\\nnan was forced to leave the country- side shortly after his valiant display of courage, and since then nobody in Dunse has beard whether he be dead or living, and nobody cares. This is all I have to tell y«> respecting ilxcjhisc alarm, and 1 hone ye are satisfied. 1 WILSON'S ?i>ii5'(ovtcal, CrnlitttonarB, anli Emnsm.ittbr TALES OF THE BORDERS. TRIALS AND TRIUMPHS tr was in the autumn of 1825, that a stranger was wander- ing Iiy the side of the silver lakes and over the majestic mountains of rersiantic Cumberland. He was near the side of blue Keswick, and the light wind was scattering, in showers, the death-touched leaves upon the bright waters. Suddenly, the face of the hdce became troubled, and dark ripples rose upon its bosom, as if the chained spirit of a storm strugglud thereon to be free, and moved tliem. A louder rustiing and a sound of agitation was heard among the trees, fls though it were there also. Thick clouds gathered before the face of the sun, and darkness, like an angel's wrath, rolled along the brow of the mighty Skiddaw. In a few moments the tlumder was heard bursting from the moun- tain sides, and its echoes reverbod, as the groaning of the great hills, tlirough the glens. Thunder, lightning, and tempest, gathered round, and burst over the stranger. The rattle crowded together upon the hills, and the birds of heaven sought shelter in the woods. The stranger, also, \»oked around for a place of refuge. Before him, at the distance of about a quarter of a mi]e, Jay a sequestered and beautiful villa — round \\'hich mountain, wood, and water, and craggy clitt", were gathered — «ith a slojiing lawn before it. It was a sjiot which the genius of romance might have made its habitation. The mansion was in keeping with th« scenery, and towards it the stranger re])aireil for shelter. He was requesting permission of a servant of the house- hold, to be sheltered until tlie storm jKissed over, when the iiccupier of the mansion came himself to the door, and, with the frankness of an old friend, held out his hand, saying — " Come in — thou art welcome. At such a time the birds of heaven seik shelter, and find it in the thick branches of the M'0( ds ; and surely man has a right to expect refuge in the habitations of his feUow-mi-n. Follow nie. friend, ajid rest here until tlie storm be pasi. The stranger bowed, thanked him and followed him ; but, ere they had sat down, the owner of the mansion again addressed his visitant, saying — " The inhabitants of the East ask no questions of strangers until they have given them water to wash their feet, and a change of garments, if required. I know no excuse which the people of the West can offer, why they should be less hospitable. I perceive that thv apparel is already drendied ; therefore, my servant will provide thee with a change of raiment. Co, do as I request, that no harm overtake thee ; and, in the meantime, 1 will order refreslunent, after which, thou and I sliall con- verse together." Tlicre was a kindness in the manner, and an expression ef benevolence in the aspect of his entertainer, whidi at once gratified and interested tiic stranger. The latter ap- peared to \ye about fortv ; but his hospitable entertainer was at least threescore. Care had engraven some wrinkles upon 45. Voj.. I his brow, and the " silverings" of age were beginning to mingle thickly with his once brown hair ; but lilsruddv and open countenance spoke of the generosity of his disposition, and the health of his constitution. When the stranger had put on dry raiment and partake^i of food, his host ordered Uquors to be brought ; and when they were placed upon the table, he again addressed his guest, and said — " Here, sir, thou hast claret, port, and sherry — my cellar affords no other wines. Therefore, take thy choice. Be merry and wise ; but, above all — be at home. The wayfaring man, and the man whom a storm drives into our house among the mountains, should need no second invitation. With me he is welcome to whatsoever is set before him. Therefore, use no ceremony, but consult thine own taste. For myself I am no wine-drinker. Its coldness agrees not with mv stomach, and I prefer the distil- lation of our northern hills to the juice of the gr.ipes of the sunny south. Therefore, friend, while I brew my punch, help thyself to whatsoever best pleascth thee." The stranger again thanked liim, and having something of nationality about him, preferred joining him in a bowl prepared from the " mountain dew." They quickly dis- covered that they were what the world calls "kindred spirits,' and, before an hour had passed, the stranger told whencehe came, what he had been, and what his intentions, in visiting that part of the country, were , but his name, he said, h'; did not intend to divulge to any one for a time. He might make it known in a few days, should he rensain in the neighbourhood, and, perhaps, he never would. " Well," said his host, " thou hast told me a considerable part of thy historv, but thou hast withheld thy name: I will tell thee all mine, but, to be even with thee, thou shalt not know my name either, (provided thou dost not know it already,) bejond that my Christian name is Robert." I am (continued he) the first-born of a numerous family, and am twenty-four j'ears older than the youngest of my parents' children. BIy father was what is called a 'states- man in this part of the country ; by whicn you are not to understand that he was in any way connected with politics, or had any part in governing the affairs of the nat on, but, simply, that he was the possessor of an estate contain ng some eighty acres, and which had descended to him from his an- cestors, unimpaired and unencumbered. He was a kind husband and an indulgent father ; but he was prov deut us neither. A better-hearted man never breathed. He was generous even to the committing of a crime against his own family ; and the misfortune, the error — I might say the curse of his life — was, that lie never knew t!ie value of a shilling. It has been said that I possess my father's failing in this respect ; but, through his example at all times as a warning before me, I have been enabled to regulate it, and to keep it within controllable limits. You have often heard it said, " Take care of the shillings, and tlie pounds will take care of themselves •" ''Ut this wih not iioid good in 354, TALES OF THE BORDEEa every instance —as was tlie case with my fatlier. lie ap- i)oared to be one of tliose who did not stop to consider the value between a pound and a sliilling. lie was naturally a man of a strong intellect and a sound judgment ; but his impulses were stronger still, lie was a being of impulses. They hurried him away, and he stopped not to consult with calmer reason. With him to feel was to act. lie generally saw and repented his error, before another had an opportu- nity of telling him of it, but not before it was too late ; and these self-made discoveries never prevented him from falling into the same errors again. In the kindliness of his own heart he took all mankind to be good ; he believed them to be better than they really were ; or rather he believed no man to be a bad man until he had found him to be so. Now, sir, when I say that in this respect my father exercised too much both of faith and charity, thou must not think that I am shut up here like a cynic in this mountain solitude, to inflict upon every passenger my railings against his race. On the contrary, I have seen much of the world, and expe- rienced much of its buffetings, of its storms, its calms, and its sunshine ; I have also seen much of men ; and I have seldom, I would almost say, 1 have never, met with one who liad no redeeming quality. Bnt, sir, I have seen and felt enough, to trust no man far until I have proved him. Yet my father was many times deceived, and he trusted again ; and, if not the same parties, others under the same circum- stances, lie could not pass a beggar on the highway Mith- out relieving him ; and, where he saw or lieard that distress or misery existed, it was enough for him — lie never inquired into the cause. lie was bringing up his family, not certainly in affluence, but iu respectability ; but his unthinking generosity, his open hand, and his open-heartedness, were frequently bring- ing him into trouble. One instance I will relate ; it took place when I was a lad of eighteen. There resided in our neighbourhood an extensive manufacturer, who employed many people, and who was reputed to be very rich. He was also a man of ostentatious piety ; and, young as I then was, his dragging forward religion in every conversation, and upon all occasions, led me to doubt whether he really • liad anything of religion in his heart. There were many, also, who disputed his wealth. But my father and he were as brothers. We perceived that he had gained an ascendency over him in all things ; and often did ray mother remonstrate v/ith him, for being, as she said, led by a stranger, and caution him against what might be the consequences. P'or 1 ought to inform you, that the manufacturer had been but a few years in Cumberland, and no one knew his previous history. But my father would not hear the whisper of sus- picion breathed against him. Jly mother was a native of Dumfriesshire; her ancestors liad taken a distinguished part in the wars of the Covenant ; and, one evening, I was reading to her from her favourite volume, "The Livesqfllie Scots Worthies," when my father entered, and sat down in a corner of the room in silence, and evidently in deep sorrow, lie leaned his brow upon his hand, and his spirit seemed troubled. "William," said my mother, addressing him, "why do ye sit there ? What has happened ^ There is something jmtting ye about." He returned no answer to her inquiries ; and approach inji him, and takina; his hand in hers, she added — " Oh ! there is something the matter, or ye would never sit in that way and have such a look. Are ye weel enough, ^\^illiam — or what is it ?" " Nothing ! nothing '" said he. But the very manner in which he said it, and the trembling and quavering of his voice, were equivalent to saying — " Something ! sometliing !" " Oh, dinna say to me, nothing !" said she ; " for there is a something, and that is evident, or ye would never tit as ye are doing." He struck his clenched hands upon his brow, and ex- claimed — " Do not torment me ! — do not add to my misery !" " William ! William!" cried my mother, "there is some- thing wrong, and why will ye hide it from me } Have I been your wife for twenty years, and ye say I torment ye now, by my anxiety for your weelfare .'' O William ! I am certain I didna deserve this treatment from vou, neither did I think that ye were capable of acting in such a manner What is it that is troubling ye ?" '• Nancy," he cried, in the vehemence of despair, " I have ruined you ! — I have ruined my family ! I have ruined my earthly comfort, my peace of mind, and my own soul !" " Oh, dinna talk in that way, William \" she cried ; "I ken now that something serious has happened ; but, oh ! -what- ever it be, let us bear it like Christians, and remember that we are Christians. What is it, William ? Ye may contidif in your wife now }" "Nancy," said he, "I never was worthy of such a wife. But neither look on me, nor speak to me with kindness. \ have brought you to beggary — I liave brought my family to^ beggary — and I have brought myself to everlasting miserj and despair !" " O my dear !" said she, " dinna talk in such a heathen- like manner. If it he the case that we have lost all that we had, there is no help for it now ; but I trust, and am assured, that ye will not have lost it in such a way as ta make your family hang their head among folk, in re- membrance of their faither's transaction. I am certain, already, that it is your foolish disposition to be everybody's friend, that has brought this upon ye. A thousand times have I warned ye of what, some day or other, «ould be the upshot ; but ye would take no admonition from me." " Oh !" added he, " I have misery enough, and more than enough, without your aggravating it by your dagger-drawing reflections." He sat groaning, throughout the night, with Ids hand upon j his brow ; but tlie real cause of his misery he woidd not ex- plain, farther than that he had brought himself and his family to ruin. But, with sunrise, the tale of our undoing was on every tongue ; and all its particulars, and more than all, were not long in being conveyed to us. For a tale of distress hath the power of taking unto itself wings, and every wnd of heaven will echo it, let it come whence it may, and let it go whence it may. I beheld, and I heard my mother doomed to receive the doleful congratulations of her friends — the prompt expression of their sympathy for her calamities. It was the first time, and it w;is the last, that many of them ever felt for human wo. But there are people in this world, who delight to go abroad with the tidings of tribulation on their tongue, and whose chief plea- sure is to act the part of Job's comfortcre, or, I might say, of his messengers. We learned that my father's bosom friend, the profes- sedly wealthy and pious manufacturer, had been declared a bankrupt, and that my father had become liable on his account to the amount of two thousand pounds. His un- guided generosity had previously compelled him to mortgage his property, and this calamity swallowed it up. Never will I forget the calmness, I might call it the pliilosopliy, with which Ts\y mother received the tidings. "' I am glad," said she to the individual who fn-st com- municated to her the tidings, " that my children will hare no cause to blush for their father's misfortunes; and I would rather endure the privations which those misfortunes may bring upon us, than feel the pangs of his conscience who has brought them upon his friend." Bly father sank into a state of despondency, from which it required ;dl our efforts to arouse him ; ami his despon- dency increased, when it was necessary that the money for \vhich he had become liable, should be paid. The estate, which had been in the possession of his ancestors for a huu- TALES OF THE BORDERS. srs ilrcd itntaining a situativas not exactly what could be called a good- natured person, but there was a free and easy sometlnng about my disposition, which rendered me a favourite with my feUow-clerks. I also was jiieased with their society, and it was seldom (hat I could resist the temptation of accompany- jig them wheresoever they went, when soli>jited, and which was in general to all their parties of pleasure. AVhen I said to myself, in the language of Burns — " Come, go to, I will be wise," and began to practise retrenchment in one item of my expenditure, I lieedlessly plunged into other sources i'(jindly extravagant. For my old maxim, which had proved a friend to me on my first coming to London, was completely f\hich was unlocked, and I entered it. Before me sat a lady «hoso age appeared to be below twenty. She raised her eyes towards me as I entered, and tears rmi down her cheeks. Till then I had never seen a face so beautiful, and I will add, or felt beauty's power — 1 felt as if suddenly ushered into the presence of a being who was more than mortal. Our interview I will not describe. We spoke little; and the words which we did speak were in low and hurried whispers. For we heard the sound of our tjTants' feet pacing over our head, and to have found us in conversation logetlier might have been death to botli. Almost -ivithout knowing what I said, or for lack of other words, I spoke of the possibility of our escape. A faint smile broke tluough J her tears, and she twice waved her hixnd silently, as if to s;iy, \ " It is hopeless! — it is hopeless!" From that moment she was present in all my thoughts, when awake she became the one idea of my mind, and in sleep she was the object of my dreams. As I was indulged with some degree of liberty, we met frequently, and although cur intcr^^ews were short, they were as " stolen water," or as " bread eaten in secret." Their existence was brief, but their memory long. I had informed her of my early ac- quaintance with the pirate commander, and of all that passed between us from the time of my becoming his prisoner. And when she had heard all, oven she indulged in the dream that our escape might he possible. It was about a week after my discovery of the fai* captive, that I ascertained that two of those who h.ad become prisoners with myself had joined the pirates, and the others had been cast into the sea. ]\f y fate tlieir cap- lain still h'ft undecided. IMy anxiety to escape increased tenfold ; but how it was to be accomplished, was a qucs- TALES OF THE BOKDErtS. 3W dnn wlitcli for ever haunted me, Init vliich I could never ai'.swcr. Olio (lay wo caiiio in contact witli a Diitcli lit<;ger, laden uith Hollands. The prates boarded her, hut they only bled the vessel, na tl\ey termed it; they did not take the whole cargo. With what they did take, however, they made a merry carousal ; they first hecanie uproarious in their mirth, and eventually they sobered down into a state in which a child might have bound them. 1 observed the change that was wrought upon them — I saw the advantage 1 had gained. My thoughts became fixed upon how to profit by it. It was midnight — the moon of an eastern sky flaslied 'jpon the sea — the very waters of the mighty deep moved in silence. The few stars that were in the heavens were rellected back from its bosom. On board the vessel not a living creature stirred ; the very m.an at the helm had fallen down as if dead. With the fetters upon my feet, I stood alone, the master of a dead crew. I seized an instrument that lay upon the deck, and endeavoured to unfasten the irons that fettered me. I succeeded in the attempt. It was with difficulty that I restrained from bursting into a shout of joy. But I recollected my situation. I stole on tiptoe to the cabin — I opened the door of the apartment where the fair captive was confined. " Our hour is come," I whispered in her car ; " we must escape — follow mo." She started and would have spoken aloud, but I placed my finger on her lips, and whispered — " Be silent." ■' I come, I come," she said. She followed mo, and we ascended to the deck, and stood alone in the midst of the wild ocean, without knowing whither to direct our course. I unfastened the stern-boat, and lowered it into the sea. I descended into it with her beneath my arm, and cutting asunder the rope wth which I had fastened it, I pulled away from the vessel, which was unto us both a prison-house. JSIy arm was nerv-ed with the strength of despair, and with- in a few hours I had lost sight of the pirate-ship. At day- break on the foUo^^ing day, we were alone in the midst of the vast and solitary sea ; and desperate as our situation then was, I felt a glow of happiness at the thought that I should be enabled either to save her life, or to risk mine to save her in whom, from the time that I had first seen her, my whole soul had become involved. I now felt and knew that it was in my power to serve her, that our fates were united ; and, when I beheld her alone with me upon the wide ocean, I felt as though her life had been given into my hands, and we both were secure. The thought in which I indulged was realized. We bad scarce been twelve hom-s upon the sea, when a vessel passed us at the distance of scarce a miic. I made signals, that she might discover us, and they were observed. She was bound for London, and we Avcre t.aken on board. I may say that it was now that my acquaintance with the fair being whom I had rescued .Torn the hands of those who would have destroyed her, began. Her beauty grew upon my sight as a summer sun incrc.aseth in glory ; and the more that I beheld it, the more did I become enchained by its power. It was now, for the first time, that I ventured to make inquiry concerning her name and birth ; when I ascertained that her n.ame was Charlotte Hastings ; and, upon further inquiry, discovered that she was the niece, and the supposed heiress, of the mer- chant in whose employment I was. On making this disco- very, m)' tongue became dumb. I felt that 1 loved her, because I had delivered her from death, or from what would have been worse than death. But when I knew that she was my superior in circumstances — the heiress of him in whose eniploymentlwas — I stood before her and was dumb. But there was a language in my eyes, while my tongue was silent ; and though I spoke not, I had reason to know tlmt she understood its meaning — for often I found her daik eyes amiiously fiisfened upon me t and while she gazed, the tears stole down her checks. We arrived in Bondon. On the d.ay of our arrival, 1 went towards her, and said — " Alad.im, we must i)ait." "I'art!" she exclaimed, " wherefore? — tell me where fore ?" " There is a gulf between our stations,' I answered, " which I ciuinot pass." Slie then knew nothing of my being but a clerk in her uncle's olllce, and I was resolveil that she never shouhl know. " Charlotte." I said, on first addressing her after landing, " fate has cast us together — in some f'egree it has mingled our destiny; yet we niu^t part. Fate has g.imbolcd with us — it has mo-iked us with a child's game. We must part now, not to meet again Fiuxwell ! I could have dreamed in your eyes- -yea, I could have lived in the light that fell from them ; bu', Charlotte, it was not to be my lot — that happiness was leserved for others. AV^c came to this country together ; the wind and the w.avcs spared us, and wed us. The troubled sea did not divide us. We escaped from the hands of our destroyers, and fate recorded us as one. But it may be necessary that we should part — for I know the dilVercnce between our stations ; and, if it be so, despise not him that saved you." Her uncle heard of our c.iptivity and escape '"vith the coldest indifTcrence. Not a muscle of his face moveauty to the beings of earth. She knelt before the queen, ybc otfored her a daughter's homage. " Kisc, bi'autiful one! inspiier of song'" said the queen; •' kneel not to me, for I am but a star — thou art the star of (he morning. Hide not thy face IVom before men. Let them serve and worship tlicc." Cold were her words as water which droppeth from the everlasting icicles in the caves of the north. As is the mercy of the tears of the crocodile, so was the kindness of her iooks. luivy and hatred gleamed in her eyes, like li;;ht- iiinf;s round the sides of a dark cloud. 'i'he countenance of Agitha fell ; for she knew that her father in his wrath was fiercer than the wild boar of the forest w hen at bay ; and she feared to reply to the sneer of the wile in whom his eyes delighted tjuoen Bethoc, the daughter of Gormack, knew that men said she was less beautiful than Agitha, the daughter of the king. When they walked by the clear fountains or the crystid brooks together, the founUiins and the brooks whis- pered to her the words which men spoke — " Agitha is the most lovely." Therefore did the queen hate Agitha with a great and deadly hatred. As the sleuth-hound scekcth its prey, so did she seek her destruction. As the fowler luroth ihe bird into his not, so did she lie in wait for her. Yet she ferired to destroy her openly, because that she was afraid of * TnK I,*i)V w.is the nppcll.'ition given to a aucen zmongsl tlic An- the fierce anger of tier liusbai.a Elhclfritli, and his love fcr his daughter was great. Sleep Hod from her eyes, and colour forsook her clirei-!", because of her envy of the beauty of Agitha, and tbo hatred wliich she bore her. She spoke unto her fither Gormae.k, the v/eird thane, that he would aid her with his sorceries agiinst iier. Then did they jiractise tljoir unclean spells, and perform their dark incantations to destroy lier ; but their spells and incantations prevailed not, for tiie spirit of Woden protected Agitha. Now, there resided at that time in a dark cave, in the hengh which is called Spindleston, an enchantress of great pow'or, named Elgiva— the worker of wonders. JVIen said that she could weave ropes of sand, and threads from tlie motes of the sunbeams. She could c;dl down fire from tha chnids, and transform all things by tlie waving of her magic wand. Around her hung a loose rcjbe, composed of the skins of many beasts. Her feet and her arms were bare, and they were painted with strange ligures. On her face, also, was the likeness of the spirits that ministered to her will. She was fearful to look upon. I\Ien fled at her ap- proach. The beasts of the field were scared by her shadow Hound her head was wreathed a crown of fantastic hemlock — round her neck a corslet of deadly nightshade. On her left arm coiled a living snake, and it rested its head upon her bosom. In her right hand she held a wand dipped in the poison of all things venomous. Whatsoever it touched died. Whatsoever it waved over was transformed. No human foot approached her cave — no mortal dared. The warrior, who feared not a hundred foes, quailed at the sight of El"'iva, the enchantress, the worker of wonders. Unclean reptiles crawled around her cave — the asp, the loatlisome toad, and the hissing adder. Two ov.ds sat in the farthest corner of the cave, and their eyes were as lamps in its dark- ness. They sat upon skulls of the dead. A tame raven croaked in the midst of it. It was told that the reptiles, the owls, and the raven, were objects of her enchantment — war- riors, and the daughters of warriors, transformed by the waving of her wand. Now, when Bethoc could find no rest because of the great- ness of her hatred for Agitha ; and, moreovor, as she herself had communed with impure spirits, she overcame the terror which the name of Elgiva spread. She sought her aid. In the dead of night, when the moon had gone to rest, yea, when clouds and darkness had blotted out the stars that were left to watch in the heavens, she went forth from the tower of kings. She stood before the cave of the enchantress. She lifted up her voice and cried — " Elgiva — worker of wondersl the feared of mortals ! — come forth !" The owls clapped their wings and screamed ; the ravens croaked, and the adders hissid. From the darkness of her cave the voice of the enchantress came forth — it came fortli as a voice from the grave, saving — " Who amongst the chil- dren of mortals dareth to call upon the name of Elgiva ;"■ — or, what deed of sin bringeth thee hither ?" " The queen," answered Bethuc, '• the wife of the mighty Etiielfrith, she calleth thee, she invoketh thine aid. Tho strongest spirits obey thee — the spirits of the e.arth, of the air, and of the sea. Then help me, iluiu that art more powerful than the kings of the earth, that art stronger than the fate of the stars; help — rid me of mine enemy whom I hate, even of Agitha, the daughter of the king. iMake her as one of the poisoned worms that crawl within thy cave. Or, if thou u ilt not do this thing to serve me, wlien my right hand hath shed her blood, 'turn from me the tierce wr.ith of lier father the king." Again the voice of the eneliantress came forth from the cave. Saving — '• In seven days come unto me again— bring with thee the Princess Agitha ; and Elgiva, the enclumtress, will do towards her as Bethoc the daughter of tiie weird thane, hath rcouested,'' S64 TALES OF THE BORDEES. Tlius did tlio quren, wliile Etncirrith, her lord^ was making war against a strange king in a far comitry. Darkness Jay hea^y on the hills, it concealed tho objects i)n the plains. The seven days, of which the enchantress had spoken, were expired. " Maiden," said tho queen unto Agitha, " rise and follow me." Agitha obeyed ; for the fear and tho commandment of her father were upon her. Two servants, men of the Pictish race, also followed the queen. She went towards the cave of the enchantress. Agitha would have shrunk back, but the queen grasped her hand. The swords of the men of the Pictish race waved over her. They dragged her forward. They stood before the cave of the potent Elgiva. " EJgiva ! worker of wonders !" exclaimed the queen ; " Bethoc, thy servant, is come. Tlie victim also is here — Agitha, the morning-star. By thy power, which is stronger than the lightning, and in\'isible as the wind, render loath- some her beauty ; yea, make her as a vile worm which crawleth on the ground, with venom in its mouth." Again was heard the deep voice of the enchantress, mingled with the croaking of the raven, and the screeching of the owls, as she rushed from her cave, crjang — " It shall be as thou hast said !" Terror had ontrancod the soul of the fair Agitha — it had brought a sleep over her senses. The enchantress grasped her hand. She threw lier arm aroimd her. "Away, accursed!" she exclaimed unto Bethoc the queen ; " fly ! lest the power of the enchantment fall upon thee also. Fly I lest it overtake thee as darkness overtaketh the be- nighted traveller. Fly ! ere the wand of the worker of wonders is uplifted, and destruction come upon thee." TJie followers of Bethoc quaked with dismay. They turned with her and Hed to the tower of Ida. Of their outgoing and their incoming none knew. The maidens of Bernicia wept when the loss of Agitha tvas kno^vn. " Beauty," said they, " hath perished. Agitha, whose face was as the face of heaven when its glories ap- jiear — as the face of the earth when its flowers give forth their fragrance — Agitha is not !" And because she was not, the people mourned. Queen Bethoc alone rejoiced, and was silent. Dismay and wonder spread over the land — for a tale was told of a sei-pent-worm, fearful in magnitude and of mon- strous form, which was seen at Spindleston, by the cave of Elgiva — the worker of wonders — the woman of power. The people trembled. They said of the monster — " It is Agitha, the beloved ! — tho daughter of our king, of conquer- ing Ethelfrith. Elgiva, the daughter of destruction, who commimeth with the spirits of the air, and defeatcth armies by the waving of her wand, hath done this. She hath cast lier enchantments over Agitha, the fairest of women — the meekest among the daughters of princes." The bards raised songs of lamentation for hei fate. " Smcly," said they, " when the Chylde Wynde cometh, his sword, which maketh the brave to fall and bringeth down the mighty n-iU break the enchantment." And the burden of the songs was — " Return, O valiant Chylde. conqueror of nations — thou who makest kings captives, re- turn! Free the enchanted ! Deliver the beautiful !" Now, the people of tlie land where the Chylde and liis waniors handed, wore stricken w ith terror at their approach They fled before them, as sheep fly upon the hills when the liowl of the hungry wolf is heard. He overthrew their king, he took posses,sion (Tf his kingdom. He took his crown, aud he brought it to Ethelfrith, whose ambition was bound less as the sea. lie brought it as the price of Agitha's hand. It was mom. The sun rose with his robes of glory o'er the sea. Bethoc, the dauglitcr of Gomiack the weird, stood upon the tun-ets of Ida's tower. She was performing incan tations to the four wi'ids of heaven. She c;dled upon them to lift up the sea on their invisible \nngs, to raise its wav* as mountains, and-whelm the ships upon its bosom. But the winds obeyed not her voice, and the sea was still. In the bay of Budle lay the vessels of the Chylde Wynde. and the weapons of his warriors flashed in the sunbeams and upon the sea. Therefore was the spirit of Queen Bethoc troubled. It was troubled lest the enchantment should be broken — Agitha dehvered from the spell, and Ler wTongs avenged. As a great wave rolleth in majesty to the shore, so ad- vanced the warrior ships of Chylde Wj-nde, the subduer of heroes. Tlie'people came forth to meet him with a shout oJ joy. " He is come," they cried ; -' the favoured of the stars the Chylde of the sharp sword, is come to deliver Agitha the beautiful, to break the spell of her enchantment." He heard the dark tale. His bosom heaved. He rent the robe that covered him. His grief was as the howling of the winter wind, in a deep glen between great mountains. He threw himself upon the earth and wept. But again the spirit of "V\"oden came upon him. It burned within his bosom as a fierce flame. He started to his feet. To his lips he pressed the sword of liis father. He vowed to break the enchantment that entombed his betrothed. He rushed towards the cave of Elgiva, the worker of wonders. His warriors feared to follow him. The people stood back in dismay. For by the waving of Elgiva's wand she turned the swords of warriors upon themselves ; she caused them to melt in their hands. At the mouth of her cave stood the enchantress. By hei side lay the serpent-worm. " Daughter of wickedness !" shouted the Chylde, "break thy accursed spell ; restore the fair form of my Agitha, else the blood of thy heart shall dissolve the charm." " Hearken, O Chylde," cried the enchantress ; " thou subduer of kings, thou vanquisher of the strong — sharp is thy sword, but against me it hath no power. Would it pierce the breast that suckled thee ? — the breast of her that bore thee .''" From the hand of the warrior dropped his uplifted sword, "Mother !" he exclaimed. He fell on his knees before her, " Yea, thy mother," answered the enchantress ; " who, when her warrior husband fell, fled to the desert, to the cave, and to the forest, for protection — even for protection from the love, and from the wTath of Ethelfrith the fierce, tlie brother of thy warrior father, whose eyes were as the eagle's, and liis arm great of strength. Uncouth is the habit, wild is the figure, and idle the art of thy mother. Broken is hci wand which the ^^Llgar feared. That mine eyes might be- hold my son, this cave became my abode. SuperstitioB walled it round with fire." " And Agitha .''" gasped the wamor. " Behold !" answered she, " the loathly worm at the fee' of thy mother." The skins offish of the deep sea were sewed together with cords — they w ere fashioned into tho form of a great serpent. " Come fortli, my daughter V cried the ench;intress. Agitha sprang from her disguise of skins. She sank on the breast of her hero. The people beheld her from afar. Their shout of joy rang across the sea. It was echoed among the hills. A scrcmn rose from the tower of Ida. From the highest turret Bethoc the queen had sprung. In pieces was her body scattered at the toot of the great clifi\ 'I'hey wore gathered togetlier — they \vere buried in the cave of Elgiva. From lier grave crawled an imclean beast, and it crawleth around it for ever. Ethelfrith died in battle. Woden shut his eyes and 6a\V liim not, and he fell. And Elgiva, the enchantress, the worker of wonders, was hailed as Kowcna, tlie mother of W\-ndc, the subduer of princes; 3"ca, even of Chj-lde Wyr.de, the beloved, and the lord of Agitlia the BcautifuL Such was the t;\le of the S;ixon kud- TALES OF THE BOEDERS. 305 JOHNNY I'.UO'l'IIEHTON'S FIVK SUNNY DAYS 1 HAVK ox|it'rI('iiaHl iiKuiy days Imth of sorrow anil of s:i(l- in!ss, ill tlio I'ourso of my lifciiiiil I'xin'riciico, (saiiist sorrows wore alwiiys like an auhl ahaaiiac — a hook tliat 1 never opened. Yet weol do 1 remember the five sunniest days of my exist- ence. They were days of brij^Iitness and of joy, without a spot to eh)ud them. They took phiee, also, at very various periods of my existence. I no doubt have had, independ- ent of them, many pleasant, Avaxm, bonny days — days wlierein I was both pleased and happy. But they ]iassed away like any other fine day, and they werena remembered for a week. But very dilVerent Iroin the like of these ordi- nary fine days, were those whieh I allude to as the five sunny da^'S of my existenee. They were days of pure, un- lululterated, uneloyed, almost insupportable delight. They were days, the reineml)ered sunshine of which will not set in my breast, until my life set in the grave. But I will give you an aecount of them. The first occurred when I was about twenty years of age. It was a delightful evening in the month of September, on the second day of the month, and just about five minutes ]iast six o'clock. I had just dropped work — for I ivas a souter, or more appropriately a cordwaiuer — and had thrown off my a]iron and washed my face, and I was taking a saun- ter up olf the Tweed abit, on the road leading down to Inner- leithen. I cannot say that I had any object in view, beyond just the healthful recreation of a walk in the fields, after the labours of the day. The sun seemed to be maybe about a dozen of yjirds aboon the hill top; but there wasna a cloud in the whole sky, save ao wee bit yellow one, h;u-dly broader than the brim of a Quaker's hat, that was keeking owre the hill, as if to kep the sun. Oh, it was a glorious even- ing! I daresay it never w;is equalled at the season of the year. I am sure the leaves, poor things, that were falling here and there from the trees and hedges, if they could have thought, would hae been vexed to fall frae their branches, while a' natui'c was basking in such sun- iiiness. I met several shearers, wi' their hooks owre their arms, just as I wasgaun aut o' the town, and I spoke to them, and they spoke to me; but some o' them nodded and laughed itt me, and said — " She's coming, Johnny." " Wha's comingr" said I. And they laughed again, and said — " Gang forward and sec." So I went forward, and sure enough, who should I see standing beside a yett, with her hook owre her sboutlu r, and picking the prickles of a day-nettle out of her hand, but bonny Kate Lowrie — not only the comeliest hiss in the burgh of Peebles, but in all the wide county. I had long been desperately in love with Katie, but I had never ven- tured to say as nieikle to her; though I was aware that she was conscious of the state of my feelings. We had often walked together on an evening, and 1 had gien her her fairing, and the like of that, but I never could get the length of talking about love or marriage; and scores of times had her and me walked by the side of each other, for half an hour at a time, without either of us speaking a word, beyond saying — " Eh, but this is a fine night!" half a dozen times owre — so ve may guess that we were a bashfu' couple. But on the night referred to, as I have said, I saw ner standing at a j'ett, taking a thorn of some kind out of her hand ; and I stepped forward and said to her — •' What has got into your hand, Katie ?" " It's a jaggy frae a day-nettle, I think, .John," said she. " Let me try if I can tak it oot," said I. She blushed, and t:ie setting sun just streamed across her face. I'll declare I never saw a woman look so beautiful in my born days. Ye might have- lighted a candle at my heart at the moment. I am certain, liut I did get her boiiny soft hand in mine; and .as I luld it, I am certain I would not have exchanged that hand to have held the scep- tre of th(' king Uiat sits upon the throne. I soon got out tlie [irickles — but I was so overjoyed at having her hand in mine that when they were out, I still held it in my left liiuid; while, whether it was by accident or how, I canna t" " That's weel minded," said I ; " I remember I took it off yer shouthcr, an' put it owtc the yett, when I was takin' the prickles oot o' yer finger." Ye may think of what baith of us liad been thinking about, when neither of us missed the hook, or n^mcmbered leaving it till that moment. We went to seek it, with her arm through mine, (and close to my side I pressed it,) and there, accordingly, did we find the hook upon the yett where I had placed it. She was rather feared to g.'ing into the house, on account of her being out so late, for her faither and mother were strict sort o' folk. Therefore, I volunteered to go in wi' her, and explain at once how matters stood. For, bashful ;is I was before telling my mind to her, I had broken tlie ice now, and was as bold as brass. She hesitated for some time ; but I urged the thing, and she consented, and into her faither's I went wi' her. I wasna long in making the auld man acquainted wi' the nature of my visit, and frankly asked him, if he had ony sort of ob- jection to taking me for a son-in-law. I watna," said he, " but I daresay no. I dinna see ony reasonable objection that I ought to hae. What do yc say, Tilibie.'" added he to his wife, " Mc\" added she; " what would ye hae me to saj ? Johnny is a decent hid and a guid tradesman; and if he likes Katie, and Katie likes him, I dinna see that you or I can do onything in the matter, but just leave it to their twa sells." 3GR TALES OF THE BORDERS. "Weelj Jolin," said her faitlier to me, "as Tibbie says, I i >!ippose it will just liave to rest between yoursels. If j-e are baitli agreeable, we are agreeable." I wonder I didna jump through the roof of tlie house. Jov almost deprived me of mv specitic gravity. Nevi ,r, since I was born, had I experienced such sensations of ecstasy before. Now, this was w)iat I call my first real sunny day. It was a day of memorable joy — and jov, too, of a particular description, and which a man can feel but once in the course of his existence. I can say, without vanity, tliat I had always been a saving lad, and, therefore, in the course of two or three weeks, I took ahouse,- which I furnished very respectably. And my second sunny day, was that on which Katie, and her faither, and her mother, and a lass that was an intimate acrjuaintance of hers, came a' to mv new house together — Katie never to leave it again — for the minister just came in after them. Oh ! wlien ] heard the minister pronounce us one, and gie us his bene- diction as man and wife — and, aboon all, when I thought tliat she was now 7niiie — 7niiie for ever — that nothing upon earth could separate us — I almost wondered that poor sinful mortals such as we are, should be permitted to enjoy such unspeakable happiness on this side of time. The very tears stood in my eyes wi' perfect ecstasy, and I could not forbear, before the minister and them a', of squeezing her hand, and saying — " j\[y aiii Katie !" It was October, but a very mild day, and a very sunny day — indeed it might, in all respects, have passed for a day in August. After dinner, the room became rather warm, and the window was draw7i do\^^^ from the top. There was a lark singing its autumn song right aboon the house, and its loud sweet notes came pouring in by the ^vindow. " Poor thing," thought I, " your joys are ending, and mine are only beginning ; but I trust, in the autumn of my days, to sing as blithely as ye do now." I gied another glance at my ain Katie, and as I contem- plated her lovely countenance, I felt as a man that was never to know sorrow; for I didna see how it was possible for sorrow to be ^^■here such angel sweetness existed. That was my second sunny day; and my third followed after it in the natural course of time ; for the event that ren- dered it memorable was neither more nor le.ss than the birth of my first born — my only son. I was walking out in the fields when the tidings were brought to me ; and when I •'ound that I had cause to offer thanks for a living motJier and a living child, wi' perfect joy the tears ran down my clieeks. I silently prayed for my Katie and for " my bairn" Wlien I thought that a man-son was born unto me, and that I was indeed a faither, the pride and the joy of my heart were almost too great for me to bear. I would not have ex- changed the natural and honourable title oi' Jhilher, to have been made Emperor of Russia and King of JIadagascar. It w.is a glorious day in the height of summer, and as I hurried home to see, to kiss, my bairn and its motlier, I be- lieve the very flowers by the roadside were conscious tliat it UT.s a J'aiiker, a new-made faither, that trampled on them, I did it so quickly and so lightly. But great as my joy then u,T.s, it was nothing to be compared with what I felt when 1 saw my Katie and our bairn, and wlien mv lips touched theirs. O man ! I then did feel the full, the overflowing ecstasy of a faillier's heart. Never shall 1 forget it. That was the third of my five sunny days The fourth was of a diflierent description, but gied mc un- mingled satisfaction, and perhaps I may .say, was in some sort the foundation of the one which succeeuccl. Now, I must make you sensible that Katie made a very notable wife. In her household afi'airs, she set an example that was worthy of imitation by every wife in Peebles. 'I'here was naething wasted in her house, and the shadow of | oiiy thing extravagant ^^as never set'ii One nignt, about six v.-eeks after out marri;tge, she and I were sitting at the fireside, by our two sells, (for we never made our house a hoiTif for neighbours and their clashes,) when she said to me very seriously — " John, I've often heard it said, that the first hundred pounds is worse to make than the next five hundred. Do ye no think it possible for j'ou and nie to save a hundred .'■" " I watna, my dear," said I ; " though I say it myself, there are none belonging to the craft that can make better wages than I can, and if it is your desire to m.ake the en- deavour — ^vi■ all my heart, say I." So the tiling was agreed upon, and we set about It the very next day. I got a strong wooden box made, wi' a hole on the top, just about long enough and broad enough to let in a penny-piece edgeways ; and I caused a bit leather, like a tongue, to be nailed owre the inside of the hole, so thai whatever was put in, coudna be taken out again till the box was broken open. For many a day, both her and me -nTought liard, both late and early, to accomplish it. We neither allowed the back to gang bare or shabby, nor did we scrimp our coggie, during our endeavours ; but we avoided every sixpence, every far- thing of unnecessary expense. At length Katie says to me one day, just after denner- time — " John, I daresay we will have the liundred pounds now. If ye have nae objection we will open the box and see." It was tl:e very thing which I had been wishing her to propose for months ; and up I banged upon tlie kist, and put my hand on the head of the bed, where the box was kept. It was terrible heavy, and it required both my hands to lift it down. I forced up the lid, and liaving locked the door, I placed the box upon the table. The sun was streaming in at the windoiv sae bright that }'e \vould have said it was aware of the satisfaction of Katie and mysel', as we saw it streaming upon the heap of treasure wliich our own industry had gather- ed together. It took us from two in the afternoon until six at night to count it ; for it consisted of gold, silver, and copper ; and we counted it thrice over, before we made it come twice to the same sum. At last we were satisfied that it amount- ed to one hundred and fifteen pounds, seven shillings and eightpence half-penny. When I ascertained that the object of my desire, and of my late and early savings, was accomiilished, I was that happy that I almost knocked o^^Te the table where it was all spread out, counted into parcels of twenty shillings. I threw my arms round Katie, wi' as nieikle rapture as I did on mv first sunny day, when she said — " 1 will, John ;" for the object wai of her proposing, and she had the entu'e merit of tlie transaction. It was a grand sight to see the sinking sun throwing the shadow of the liundrevembling. 1 could hardly put on my clothes. Ilou'ever, the choosing of oHice-bearers began, and I was declared duly elected deacon of the company of cordwainers. It was with ditlicully that 1 refrained from clapping my liands in the court, and I am positive 1 would not liave been able to do it, had it not been that the brethren came crowding round me to shake hands wi' me. 1 went home in very high glee, as ve mav well suppose, and Katie met me wi' great joy in lier looks. When the supper was set upon the table — " Katie, my dear," said 1, " send out for a bottle of strong ale." " A bottle of strung ale, John 1" quoth she, in snrprise ; " remember that though ye hae been ajipointed deacon o' tlie shoemakers ye are but a mortal man ! Uemember, John, that it was by drinking wholesome water, wi' pickles of oatmeal in it, that enabled yon to save a hundred jiounds, and so to become deacon of the trade. But bad ye sent for bottles of strong ale to your supper, ve would neither have .saved the one, nor been made the other. Na, na, John, think nae mair about ale." " Weel, weel," said I, " ye are riglit, Katie — I canna deny it." That was what I call my fifth sunny day — a remarkable day in my existence, standing out from amongst the rest, and crowned wi' happiness. THE HERMIT OF THE HILLS *' iNTnuDEH, thou .shalt hear mv tale," the solitary said ; While far adown beneath our feet the fiery levin played ; The thunder-clouds our carpet were — we gazed upon the storm, W hicli swept along the mountain sides, in many a fearful form I sat beside the lonely man. on Cheviot's cloudless lieight ; Above our heads was glory, but beneath more glorious right ; For the sun ^^■as shining over us, but lightnings flashed below Like the felt and burning darkness of unutterable wo. " 1 love, in such a place as this," the desolate began, " To gaze upon the tempests wild that sep'rate nie from man ; — To muse upon the passing things that agitate the world — View myself iis by a whirlwind to hopeless ruin hurled. " Jly heart w;is avaricious once, like yours the slave of feeling — Perish such hearts ! — vile dens of crime ! man's selfishness concealing ; — For self! damned self's creation's lord! — man's idol and his god ! Twas torn from me, a blasted, bruised, a cast o(T, worthless load. " .'vonie say there's wildness in my eves, and others deem me crazed. They, trembling, turn and shun my path — for which let J leaven be jiraised ! Tiiey say my words are blaspliemy — they marvel at my fate, When 'tis my happiness to know, they jutj/ not, but — /i-'.e. " My father fell from peace and wealth the day tliat I w.m born — Sly mother died, and he became his fellow-gamblers scorn ; I know not where lie lived or died — I never lieard Ids name — An orphan in a workhouse — I was thought n child of shame. '• Some friend by blood had lodged iiie there, and bought my keeper too. Who pledged his oath he ^^duld conceal what of my tale he knew. Death came to him ; he called on me the secret to unfold; Hut died while he was uttering the little I have told. " JMy soul was proud, nor brooked restraint — w;x.s proud, and I was young ; And with an eager joyancy, I heard his faltering tongue Proclaim me not of beggars born ; yea, lis he speaking died, I — greedy — mad to know the rest — stood cursing by his side. " I looked upon the homely garb that told my dwelling-i place — It hung upon me heavily — a token of disgrace ! I Hed the house — I went to sea — was by a «Te(ch im- pressed. The stamp of whose brutality is printed on my breast. " Like vilest slave he fettered me, my llesh the irons tore — Scourged, mocked, and worse than buried me upon a life- less shore Where human foot had never trode — upon a barren rock. Whose caves ne'er echoed to a sounds save billows as they broke. " 'Twas midnight — but the morning came. I looked upon the sea, And a melancholy wilderness its waters were to me; The lieavens ivere black as yonder cloud that rolls beneath our feet While neither land nor living thing my eager eyes cr.uld meet. " I n;Je asunder torn. The maiden of my love w;\s rich — was rich — and I was poor — A soulless menial shut on me her wealthy guardian's door. " She knew it not, nor would I tell — tell ! by the host of heaven, JFy tongue became the sepulchre of soimd ! — my heart was i-iven. I fled society and hope ; the prison of my mind A world of inexpressible and guilty thoughts confined. She was not wed — my hope returned ; ambition fired my soul, Sweeping round me like a fury ; while the beacon and the goal Of desire ever turbulent and sleepless, was to have The hand that mine had rescued from the fetters of a slave. " I was an outcast on the earth, but braved my hapless lot; And while I groaned impatiently, weak mortals heard it not. A host of drear, unholy dreams did round my pillow haunt ; While my days spent in lonehness, were darkened o'er witli want. ' At length blind fortune fayonred me — my breast to joy awoke ; And then he w ho had left me on the isolated rock. I met within a distant land ; nor need I farther tell, But, that we met as ecjuals there, and my antag'mst fell. " Awhile I brooded on his death ; and gloomily it brought A dosolateness round me, stamping guilt on eveiy thought. I trembling found how bloodily my vengeance was ap- peased. At what vile price my bosom was oi jealousy released. " For still the breathing of his name by her I lov'd, had rung. In rem.embrance, like the latest sound that falleth from the tongue Of those best loved and cherished, when upon the bed of death They bequeath to us their injuries to visit in our wrath. " But soon these griefs evanished, like a passing sunmuT storm. And a gush of hope like sunshine flashed around me, tn deform The image of repentance, while the darkness of remorse Retreated from its presence with a blacker with'ring curse. " I hurried home in eagerness ; — the leaden moments fled ;— My burning tale of love was told — was told, and we were wed. A tumult of delighffulness had rapt my sou! in flame. But on that day — my wedding day — a mourning letter came. "Joy died on ev'ry countenance — she, trembling, broke the seal — Screamed — glanced on me ! and lifeless fell, luiable to reveal The horrid tale of death that told her new-made husband's guilt— The hand which she that day had wed — her brother's blood had spilt. " Tliat brother in his mother's right another name did bear — 'Twas him I slew ; — all shrank from me in horror and in fear ; — They seized me in my bridal dress — my bride still sense less lay — I spoke not while they pinioned me and hurried me aw.ay " Tliey lodged me in a ciiminal cell, by iron gratings barred, And there the third day heavily a fiineral hell I heard. A sable crowd my prison passed — they gazed on it with gloom — It was my bride — my beautiful, they followed to the tomb ! " I was acquitted — but what more had I with life to do ? — I cursed my fate — my heart — the world — and from i's creatures flew. Intruder, thou hast heard my tale of \ATPtcbodness and guilt- Go, niiiiglo with a -viler world, and tell it it' thou will." .'V> W f L SON'S TALES OF THE BORDERS ^I'lIE MINISTER'S DAUGHTER, ciiapteh I. J.IvcK tl'.pio n man wlio cnlle Ms lirart tiio own. Cttn look on rippning bcnuty's hrptithlng cy^ — Tlio brrnst of Bno\v— love's (iltJir, nntl its throno_ The llpa round wliltli oiveot smiles nnd gracej lly-:- Xlir moro thnn Sfulptuvod olcfranco — tho tono Of lovplincsa nnd licnltli, wlioso Tcrmil dje la «Uh tho early lily blent, on cliccka '\Vlio90 very bUiOi of lovo and conquest epcnlo. Say, is there one on these can fondly gaze, Nor feel his heart turn roiiel to hia will; Till all that charmed is changed — Iho voice of praise — The siuile of friends — his haunts, by wood or hill — Tlie sports, the joys, tlie all of eai'ly days — . Have lost their music; nnd ho gazeth slill Upon the fair enehantross — chanjicr — all I Till she, too, changed, shall on hia bosom fall, niTisNPATii was a small fishing village in the south of Scot- land, of which, many years a^o, a ftlr Robertson was minis- ter, lie had a daughter of great beauty, whose name was Mary. It was October, and there had been a wreck upon the coast during the night. By daybreak, old and young were upon the beach. Amongst them was Mary Robertson. She came upon the seeming lifeless body of a youth, who, hy his dress, appeared to be an ofhcer. She bent over him. She fancied there was still warmth at his heart. She called for help, and bearing him to her father's house, within an hour animation was restored. On the following morning, BIr Robertson led into the breakfast parlour, a noble-looking young midshipman. Youthful enthusiasm, sadness, and gratitude, appeared blended on his features. His eyes were of a deep and piercing black ; at first sight, almost unpleasantly so, seem- ing to search the very thoughts of those on whom' ho looked. But his countenance was animated and expressive ; and his bright brown hair fell carelessly, in thick natural curls, over a broad and open brow. His stature somewhat exceeded tho middle size ; and his person, though not inel- egant, was rather robust than handsome ; while his age could not exceed five and twenty. INIutual congratulations were exchanged ; and he had been seated but a few minutes, when I\Iary placed a small pocket Bible in his hands. He glanced at her for a moment, almost unmeaningly ; and opened it with a look of perplexed curiosity. When the Psalm commenced, he seemed suqirised and startled at the affinity it nnd the chapter which was read by Mary bore to his own situation. He appeared puzzled, confounded, interested ; and, when they knelt in prayer, he looked round in embarrassment, as one who wist not what to do. He was evidently a stranger to such things. Of the prayer, he knew not what to think. lie was at once pleased, ovcr- (iDwered, and offended. " It may be all very good," said he to himself; " but it is Bcarce civil to call a gentleman a sinner to his face ! He is very anxious about my spiritual state to-day, but my body might have perished for him yesterday, had not that glorious creature exerted herself." While he thus thought, ho gazed obliquely on her kncel- 47. Vol I, ing form, bis bead resting on bis hiuid, with his face turned toward the chair where she knelt, tillhisgazc became rivetted — his thotighls absorbed; ami, as she, with her father, rose, ho started to his feet, and, almost unconscious of what had passed, looked round in ill-disguised bewilderment. Leaving him, however, to overcome his confusion, we shrdl introduce our readers to what we know of his family. Henry AValton — for so,in future, we shall designate liim — ■was the only son of Sir Robert AValton, in tho county of Devon. Sir Robert was proud of his son, and loved him second only to his bottle,his chestnut hunter,and his hounds, or, rather, ho loved them less, but thought of them more. "Bravo ! Hal is father's better," said he ; " there goes a chip of the old block I" as Henry cleared a five-barred gate, or brought down a pigeon on the wing with a bullet. Not that he would have risen a shade in the esteem of the Baronet, had he carried in his head the wisdom of Greece and the eloquence of Rome. All oratory was alike to him, save the " sound of the bugle horn." Henry, however, had other qualifications, which were a theme of continued praise with ' his father. He was a keen sportsman — a dead shot ; and when but nineteen, disguised as a countryman, he had at- I tended the annual "revel" at Ashburton, where his fathei presided as umpire, and was to bestow five guineas, from his own purse, on the victor wrestler. Having inserted 8 fictitious name upon the lists, he entered the ring, .and alter- nately threw his three brawny opponents two fair back-falls each, amidst the deafening shouts of all the strong men in Devonshire. He now approached, hanging his head, toward his father, to receive the extended reward. " Swini-c ! look up, man !" vocifer.atcd Sir Robert in the excess of his admiration, accomp.anying the request with a hearty slap on the shoulder; "Swinge ! I sa}', look up, man, for thou'st a good un !" Henry bowed, and, without speaking, retired with the purse ; "and, to increase the astonishment of the spectators divided its contents among tho three chopfallen and, in truth, not over-pleasant-looking antagonists he had van- quished. At this act of generosity, the Devonians shouted and bellowed forth their lusty and reiterated applause, as ii determined to shake down the sun from the heavens, to crown the brows of the conqueror. Sir Robert shouted louder than the loudest — rushed into the ring — grasped the hand of tht •Nictor, .and shook it with an honest enthusiasm that would have relieved a more delicate hand from the future trouble of wearing fingers. " Faith, and dang it 1" said he, " and thou .art a good un. Now, for that same, instead of five guineas, here are ten for thee. But, why, man, look up, and let us see thy face, and pull off thy night-cap." So s.aying, he without ceremony unfastened a napkin Henry had boiind around his head, to aid his concealment. " Swinge! what!" shouted Sir Robert— "my own son ! my own Hal ! fiither's better !— O Lord ! O Lord !" He danced in the extreme of ecstasy, and hugged him furiously to his heart, till he who had overthrown three, fell beneath the muscular embrace of his father. Henry's gr.andfather, after living forty years in the unna- tural .and unsocial state by some called single blessedness, and remaining proof against the shafts of blind gods and bright-eyed divinities, found his philosophy disturbed by the 370 TALES OF THE BOKDEEa laughing face, the exquisite nock, and tlie well-rounded arm of a pretty haymaker, who was a parish apprentice to one of his own tenants. Elue eyes, auburn locks, and a waist symmetry itself, (for it, too, Imd arrested the admiration of the bachelor,) are not to be trifled with in a hay-field, in a glowing day in June, when the melting fragi'ance smells to heaven, the lark pours down the full tide of melody and affection over the nest of his delighted and listening mate, and the very butterflies pursue each other, flutter, shake their downy wings, and wanton love in the dreamy air ! If a bachelor will go abroad on such a day, he should lock up his heart in his ^viiting-desk. But our old baronet, never liaving made the discovery that he was in possession of one, overloolwed this precaution — " Gazed on the fair Who caused his care. And siplict-1 and looked, sijjlied and looked, Sighed und looked, and siglied again ;" till the whole group of curtsying haymakers burst into a titter at the confusion of his Honour. He shortly found means to declare his passion, though it is true he never dreamed of marriage : but the fair maiden dreamed of nothing else ; and, to the astonishment of her wealthy lover, would hear of nothing else. Therefore, Susan Prescott be- came Lady Walton, and, induetime,the mother of Sir Robert. Withintwo years after their marriage, theBaronet dropped from his chair, while drawing the cork of his third bottle, in a fit — which Lady Walton could not remember the name of! She wept, like a dutiful widow, over her husband; who, having a constitutional terror of the thought of death, (though by no means a coward,) had ever banished every thing that tended to remind him of mortality ; and thereby dying without a will, left the future guardianship and edu- cation of Sir Robert to his mother. She had, indeed, had fifty tutors, as .she said, superintending the studies of the young heir of the Priory ; for none staid beyond a month, and she assured them — " She would allow no such hungry nothings to contradict her Bobljy, who was a good scholar and mother's darling." For the little, therefore, that Sir Robert did know, he was more indebted to natural quickness, and the occasional les- sons of the vicar, who forced them upon him in defiance of his mother's displeasure, than to his fifty tutors. On the year after his coming of age, in despite of the tears and upbraidings of Lady Walton, Sir Robert ordered ]iis travelling carriage, his double-barrelled fowlingpieces, and all the et ccleras of a sporting campaign ; and left the " garden and watering-place of England," (as its inhabit- ants call it, and with some cause,) for a shooting excursion on the moors of Scotland. j\gainst this journey his mother wept, prayed, and protested; but her tears, her entreaties, and protestations, were lost upon her son ; who, after seeing his pack properly packed up, sprang into his cai'riage, whistling " Over the hills and far awa," with a suddenness and a weight that made the wheels creak and the horses stagger ; while her Ladyship kept thrusting beneath his feet bundles of stockings, flannels, and dreadnoughts, sufficient for a Greenland voyage, or a North West passage — " Quite certain," as she said, poor soul, and sobbing as she said it, while she scrambled up to the carriage for another parting kiss, " that her dear Bobby would be frozen to death, that he would, in that cold outlandish coun- try ! But they could expect no better who would not take a mother's advice." " Good-by, mother I" cried Sir Robert. Crack went the whip — whir went the wheels — the horses tossed their heads . — the hounds raised a farewell note — and away went the baronet, with a sound heart and light, to the hills of" bonny Scotland." The shooting season had but commenced. Sir Robert had been but a few days in the Highlands, when he became acquainted with a brother sportsman. Jfajor Cameron wa« a hardy, weather-beaten veteran, who had only his half-pay to live upon, with his honest scars, and the blood of Lochieb* in his veins, to boast of. lie had been distinguished a? a fearless and able officer, was possessed of considerable shrewdness, and his knowledge, if not deep, was general, lie had had a dream of ambition in his youth , but a Majo- rity, with permission to retire upon half-pay — and,, more than these, the death of a beloved wife, with the education and care of an only daughter — dispelled the enchantment, lie now rented a beautiful cottage, and a few surrounding acrfs, in the neighbourhood of Inverness. Shortly after their acquaintance, the IM.ijor — though cer- tainly not struck with the attainments of the young baronet, yet pleased with his constant good humour, his love of sport, and. perhaps, (but we can't tell,) not overlooking his fortune and his own daughter — invited him to his house. The simple elegance of Miss Cameron's household startled Sir Robert. Che, too. stood before him in all the glory of young womanhood. To say that she was beautiful, is to say the least that we could say. Her person was tall, graceful, and commanding ; and her mind adorned, not merely with ornamental, but domestic accomplishments. It is true her father, though a good soldier, a good citizen, and an in- dulgent parent, had no fixed or guiding principle of religion. He believed himself a Christian ; but he was one of those who do Dot make their religion the rule of their life; and under such a teacher, while she received ,a high sense of honour and a pure morality ; her religion, like that of many others, consisted in attending the church, and finished with the service. To think of a warm-hearted, unsophisticated young fellow, like Sir Robert, holding out against the artillery of her eyes for a week, were as impossible as to suspend the earth from a packthread ! He looked — that is to say, he looked as stupid— as people generally do when the eyes have to per- form the office of the tongue. Within a fortnight, the young sportsman bade good-by to the moore. His game lay in the Major's cottage. His blood rose to a fever heat without Lady ^V^al ton's flannels. Twenty times in the twenty-four hours he sighed, looked in her face, and said, 'Oliss Came- ron !" looked to the ground again, and said no more. And when, at length, the Jlajor railed him on letting the shoot- ing season slip — " Why, dang it, d'ye see, Jlajor," said he, " I came here to shoot, and I've got shot myself! So, if thou art my friend, now or never ask Jliss Cameron." The Major had already reasoned that he must die and leave his daughter unprovided for, and an orphan. Tlie thought cut him to the heart. It had often cost him tears. The baronet was rather ignorant, but he was good-natured. It was evident he loved his dauffhter — she micht instruct him. He was rich ; he had influence — the Major might yet obtain a regiment ! "Yes, yes," s.aid the veteran to himself,' she musl^ Jess shall marry the Englishman." Miss Jess Cameron was sufficiently aware of the stntc of her lover's heart, not to be surprised by her father's an- nouncement of his wishes ; and, having weighed the matter much in the same manner, with the aditional reflection that Sir Robert was a handsome fellow — though rather huge withal — she blushed a soft consent ; and the marriage articles being agreed to, signed, and sealed, before brown October had run its course, the travelling carriage containing Sir Robert, his lady, and father-in-law, was again on its way to Buckham Priory On their arrival, the then dowager Lady Walton grew pale — then all the hues of the rainbow — and finally settled into a bursting red. ■' Lad)' Walton ! — Lady Walton, indeed!" she repealed and >vrung her hands ; till " Lady Walton !" was heard in every room of the Priory. TALES OF THE BORDERS. 37) " Two Lady AVnltons in one house !" sfie again cneo, bikI (lew to lier bottle for consolation. Cider had been her favourite beverage ; but, continuinc; to mix it too strongly with brandy, in a few years after this jiroof of her son's dis- ^bedience, the good lady went out of tliis world with nearly as little ceremony as her dear deceased husband. Previous to his being sent to the university, Henry's studies were anxiously directed by his excellent mother and grandfather ; while his father took upon him the guidance of his bodily exercises. He had now been about four years in the navy. Sir Uobert swore, " IJal was not father's son, in making choice of such a iirofession." His mother would rather lie had chosen the army, while his grandfather sighed and wondered at his taste. Such, at this period of our story, were the inhabitants of the Priory ; whom having intro- duced to our readers, we proceed witli our narrative. Peturn we now to the JManse. Burnpath was a beauti- ful, though irregular little village, lying, perhaps, a quarter of a mile (we cannot speak to a measured certainty) from the sea. The long, bleak, dark ridge of Lammermuir smiled into fertility, as its eastern boundary descended to- wards the kirk. A young forest of pines spread proudly over the surrounding hills. A wimpling burn, which, at times, assumed the airs of a cataract, ran in manifold and antic windings through a steep ravine, or rather chasm, in the mountains that stretched back into the desert. The brook imitated, as it neared the sea, the importance of a liver, and separated the Manse from the village. A wooden deal, resting on the opposite hanks, served as a bridge dur- ing a flood ; and, in summer, four large stones, about three feet apart, answered all the purposes of a ferry. "We have already said the JManse looked to the sea. It was a dark, dingy-looking house — old, black, and solid ; with deep, narrow, castellated windows ; and huge, massy chimneys, rising, like staircases, from its foundations, on the outside of each galde. It was surrounded by a clump of oaks, and thin, dry, aged firs, the extremities of which had forgotten the seasons. Several were broken and branchless, and two uprooted by the late storm. The tombs joined with a corner of the building. The owl already shrieked tin the eaves for its midnight meal ; and the daw perched on the roof of the anticipated ruin. The bat wheeled around it undisturbed ; and the villagers, though accustomed to its gloom, felt loneliness creep through their flesh as they approached it after twilight. The house had no evil name ; but situation is everything, (as landlords say,) and the Jlanse had an evil situation. The picture, however, had two lights. Before it, lay a sloping garden, disposed and pruned by the hand of taste ; and from its highest elevation, its shadow was seen sleeping in the deeps of the quiet sea. Around it spread tlie purple hills ; and, with the breeze that swept down their heathery Bides, bearing health upon its bosom, mingled the notes of the shepherds flute and the bleating of his flocks. There, too, amidst the young pines, the wild-dove welcomed the spring, the lark filled the air with music, and the linnet trilled its artless note from the yellow whins. Within, the tire of comfort blazed, and the eye of affection beamed. Such was the village of Burnpath, and its Manse. JMr Kobertson felt, for Henry, a feeling of admiration ana pity. He admired his ardent and enthusiastic spirit — he jiitied its recklessness. He admired the fervid brilliancy of Ids imagination — he lamented its objects. He admired the warmth and intensity of his feelings, the extent of his knowledge, and the clearness of his understanding — while, to use his own words, he pitied his ignorance of the know- ledge which alone maketh rich unto salvation. These sen- timents, with a pious and an anxious wish that he might be instrumental in awakening within him a concern for his future welfare, induced him to solicit Henry to remain for several weeks beneath his hos'iitable roof. The invitation v/as accepted, with a raj)ture that might have betrayed other feelings than gratitude; but this Air I!obert:ion at- tributed to the warmth of his young friend's di.s]iosition. IMary, tuo, heiird tlie proposal made aiul accej)ted, with a deliglit which slie strove not to disguise. Melancholy passed from her brow, a smile jilayed U|)on her cheeks, anil a tear — no, it could not be called a tear — it ^vas a drop of joy — of but no matter. Henry was by her side — he liad taken her hand — she oH'ered not to withdraw it. He said nothing — there was no need to say anything. It was mere congratulation at the j)rospect of his remaining a few weeks longer. Jlary thought l/utt was her meaning ; il was, doubtless, Henry's also ; and her fatlier thought so, too. About twelve weeks liad passed. Henry felt exquisitely happy. ]\Ir Robertson's prayers had become quite delight- ful ; for then he could take long deep draughts of he scarce knew what — on the lovely form that knelt by his side ; save when she, too, stole a sidelong glance, and tliei. eyes met — were withdrawn — and both blushed — blushed, it may be, at their want of devotion. Nevertheless, Henry was liappy; Mary was happy, too. Happiness is contagious: her father grew cheerful and jocular. He was convinced Henry was becoming religious. CHAPTER II. The morninc stars were twinkling still, TIic cock but tlirice did craw, Wlien our guid laird rode owrc the hill, 111 weddiii suit sae braw. And aye lie clapped his ain lmj\m man*, Tliat she her feet micht ply ; And aye he crooned a cauty air — *• A happy man am 1." *" Oil ! a happy man am I," quo' h<\ *•• As e''cr was blest or born !" And owre the liill lie rode in gl'CC, Upon his wcdtUii morn. Now ane by ane tlie stars gaed out. And birds began to sing ; And a' the air became a shout Of music on the wing. His cheek was flushed, but it grew pale Before tlie stars returned, And music was a maniac's wail 'A'lierc desolation mourned. For \-ainIy whimpered he a catch. And vainly did he ride — ■"Twas but to see another snatch Away his bonny bride I It had been long understood that the lovely Mary Robert- son was to become the wife of a rich bachelor, of ripe mid- dle age, named Mr Cuthbertson. Tlieir wedding-day, in- deed, had been long fixed by her father and wooer, and its eve had arrived. But, on that day, she secretly gave her hand to Henry Walton. On the evening preceding the day appointed for his mar- riage, Mr Cuthbertson came smiling through Burnpath, patting the shaggy neck of his companion. He appeared to sit lighter on his saddle than usual ; and the glad creature, either participating in his joy, or grateful for the termina- tion of its journey, ambled and affected all the importance of a *' Courser of tiie Ukraine breed.'* The rider had laid aside his fashionable blades. Stopping in the passage, and casting off what m as rather a warm lliaji S72 TALES OF THE BOEDERS. a fashionaWe roquelaire, he displayed a coat of superfine Saxony blue; which, upon a body of better proportions, would, in those days, have purchased immortality for the most fashionable sneidier in Bond Street. Beneath, appeared a waistcoat white as the driven snow, adorned with orna- mental niothcr-of -pearls, and unbuttoning his overalls, a pair of " Lean and slippered pantaloons" were discovered, of the same consistency and hue as his coat. Thus prepared, after smoothing back his hair from his forehead, and adjusting his cravat, the joyous bridegroom made one stride to the parlour-Aoor We know not how our unfortunate progenitor looked in Paradise, when questioned — "Adara, what hast thou done ?" hut, certainly, not less horror-stricken was our well-dressed lover, when his next step brought him in front of his lovely hride; with her arms thrown aiound the neck, and her face, b?,thed in tears, buried in the bosom of Henry Walton. His mouth opened to its utmost width. His large eyes became still larger ; they strained forward from their sockets, ready to leap on the devoted pair. His clenched hands were raised, and in contact with the roof. The shaking began in his heart, and his knees caught the contagion. Every joint appeared under the power of electricity, and communicated its influence to the furniture in the room. The quivering vibrations of his whole person resembled a wire suspended from the ceiling, and struck by an instrument, which gave forth one sepulchral sound ; and, with a loud, deep groan, his tall figure fell insensible on tlie floor. Mary groaned also, and endeavoured to raise hira, but could not. Henry sprang to his assistance, and lifting him from the ground, placed him upon the sofa. For a time. Ills bones seemed melted, and his joints out of their place. At length his eyes began to roll— his teeth grated together ■ — he threw out iiis two clenched hands furiously — tore open his spotless vest, and rending it in frenzy, the unfor- tunate m-other-of-pearls followed the fragment, and were driven across the room. The destruction of his costly Mar- Bcilles recalled a portion of his scattered senses : he gave a piteous glance at his breast, to see the rend '• his envious fingers made ;" then turning his eyes upon Henry, who still bent over him, he uttered a loud yell; thrust his fingers in the throat of his rival, as a tiger springs upon its prey ; and, :n a moment, darted to his feet. Cuthhertson was, at no time, deficient in plysical strength ; and now, aided by frenzy, his grasp was the dying gripe of a giant. Henry, ■who was unprepared for the attack, became black in the strangling hold of his antagonist. Mary, recalled to a con- sciousness of her situation by the conflict, screamed for as- sistance, supplicated and threatened, but in vain. At that moment, her father returned from Edinburgh. So soon as his astonishment admitted of words, he mingled his inqui- ries, entreaties, and threats, with his daughter's. Cuth- bertson's eyes gloated with indignation ; his teeth gnashed ; he uttered short, thick screams, and his fingers yet clung to the throat of his opponent. Henry, however, who, though less in stature, inherited the gigantic strength of his father, and the skill of a wrestler, threw his arms around liis man, fixed his knuckles into the most susceptible part of his back, and raising his foot to his knee, hurled him to the earth, with a violence that seemed to shake the very walls of the IManse. In a moment, Cuthhertson was again upon his feet, "weeping, waiUng, and gnashing his teeth." Henry tood by Mary's side. " JIary," said her father, "tell me the cause of this an- ^cemly scene — that, on my return, instead of the sounds of joy and rejoicing, I hear wrath and profane language , find, behold, my best friends tear each other as wild beasts !" Mary was silent; she glanced at Henry and clung to his iside for protection. "Osir! sir!" exclaimed ^Ir Cuthhertson — 'we are mined — lost — undone ! The villain ! — the monster ! — the se- ducer ! — has torn from me the pride o' my heart, and the delight o' my een ! He has turned the house o' joy into shame, and the bridal sang to lamentation! O JMr Robertson ! what's to be dune noo .'' Mary, !Mary, woman ! wha wad hae thocht this o' you .'" Mr Robertson's blood chilled in his veins ; his flesh grew cold upon his bones ; an icy sweat hurst from his forehead ; anger and sorrow kindled in his face. He looked upon his daughter with a blighting frown. It was the first she had ever seen upon his mild features. His tongue faltered ; he said, " Mary !" as if an accusing spirit from the grave had spoken it ; and the frown blackened on his countenance. She heard her name as she had never before heard it from a parent's lips. She beheld his look of anguish and of scorn — the tear and the curse meeting in a father's heart for his own child ! She uttered a self-accusing groan, and fell lifeless at his feet. Janet Gray, the aged housekeeper, and who had been Mary's nurse, entered with the maid-servant, and canied her to her room. Her father turned with an upbraiding look toward Henry, and said — " Mr Walton, as an injured man and a mourning parent, I demand from you the explanation of circumstances which, I fear, have brought dishonour upon my house and shame upon my grey hairs ! Tell me — tell an agonized father — was 3'our heart so void of mercy and of gratitude, as to ruin the bosom that saved you from destruction .'' Answer me, Henry Walton ! — I conjure you as in the presence of j-oui Maker — remove my fears, or seal my misery !" " It is your own deed !" exclaimed Henry bitterly. " 1 loved your daughter. I would have fled from your house for ever. You — you withheld me ! and my soul grew mad with love. I would still have fled, have buried me in the deep from which she snatched me ; l>ut I could not rule destiny. She loved me — only mo. She is mine ! Your daughter cannot wed that man." ?Ir Robertson seemed smitten by a voice from heav en , he wrung his hands — threw himself back in despair, and wept. " Canna many me!" cried Mr Cuthhertson — "she skml marry me ! And, on you, ye sacrilegious dyvour, I'ii have satisfaction, if satisfaction can he had in the thrn! kingdoms ; for baith heaven and earth wiU rise up am' battle upon my side !" " Sir," said Henry, " in sympathy for your feelings, T for- give those epithets. If I have robbed you of her hand. I have Jiot of her aftections — they were never j'ours. But I will not withhold from you the satisfaction you demand and, to-morrow, or this hour, I shall be ready to oft'er you such reparation as a gentleman may." " Then," cried ]\Ir Cuthhertson, who undci stood him literally, " renounce my bride for ever ; and restore h.cr to my heart — if a gentleman can do that — ^restore her spotk'ss as a lily opening to the spring.'' " Henry Walton," said JMr Robertson, rising with appa- rent composure, " you have rendered this a house of shame but it shall not bo a house of blood. Such language mav be fitting for the world, but not for the presence of a minis- ter of peace. This moment leave my roof ; and m,iy Heaven change your heart, and forgive your ingi-atitude !" Thus saying, he took his hand, and led him to the door. Henry oft'erod not to resist or expostulate, and hendiuL: a proud farewell, the doors of Burnpath Manse closed on iiim for ever. ]\Ir Cuthhertson, now relieved of his rival's presence, took out his tobacco box, pulled a cluiir to the fire, ordered a jiipc, threw his legs across each other, and commenced smokin!» "ith the utmost sati>factioii and inditfeience ; save that l-.a uccuiioiiaUy hont an ■inxiousg:ize on the to'.n vest; and, lotik- TALES OF THE BORDERS. 373 inp oarefiAly vouml tlio room for tlic unlucKV frn;;m<'iit, and its niollii'r-iit'-jii'arl Inittoiis, his oyos foil iqinii it, ;tii(l liftilij^ it froiu tliL' iloor, ho coniiin'iiced lilting it to tiic parent cluth, unil, witli pi'ifi'ct comjilaceiicy, said — '■ Iliiot, it will int'iid again. The seam, when tlie loat is hnltoned, will never he nolieed. Mere, lassie," he cried to the servant who entered the room, " was ye ever at the sewing school?" " Yes, sir," re])lied the girl. " \\'eel, di) ye think, ye euuld male a joh o' my waistcoat.''" returned he. " If ye du it neatly, ve shall have haU'-a-crown, to yersel, beside-i the rihhons the morn. 15nt hand awa, and sie hoo your mistress is in the first place, and come and tell me." On Henry's departure, Sir Robertson entered his daugh- ter's room. She was lying delirious, calling for " her Henry, her husband, to save her I" Junet Ciray sat by her side. " Can it be thus, Janet.''" said he. " Does she call him hushand ?" Janet pointed to the ring upon IMary's finger, and was silent. Air Robertson reeled hack, aiul leaned his liead against the window. The wind howled without, and the rain dashed upon the casements. He hastened down stairs, and entered the parlour as Mr Cuthhertson gave his last injunction to the maid. " My friend," said he, " I have acted rashly in turning this voung man from the house. I fear my daughter is, indeed — his — his wife I" "His wife!" ejaculated Mr Cuthhertson — "his wife!" — Thej)ipo fell from his mouth — the fragment of the waistcoat was cast in the fire. " His wife !" he exclaimed a third time, and stamped his foot npon the floor. " Go," said Mr Robertson to the girl, " see if ilr 'Wal- ton he yet in the village; and tell him that I beg he will instantly return. It is a dreadful night," continued he, addressing his forlorn friend, " and in putting him from my house, I have neither acted as a father, a man, nor a Christian." " Oh ! maj' darkness gather round his soul, and despair he the liirlit of his heart !" cried Cuthhertson: " for he has made me miserable." The maid returned, and stated that Mr Walton had not been seen. "He will have taken to the moors," said Jlr Robertson; " and, ignorant of the dangerous way, in the darkness of the night, his blood may be upon my head." " Are ye mad. ^ arc ye daft?" said JMr Cuthhertson wildly; ' Mr Robertson ! would you insult me in the midst of my bereavement .'' Would ye leave 7nc — ine, that ye've kenned for thirty years — to sorrow as one that has no hope ?" " Have not I also my sorrows ?" replied Jlr Robertson — " the sorrows of a father whose last spring of comfort is dried up? But let me not add sin to soiTOW." And he hurried from the house. " His wife ! his wife !" muttered Mr Cuthbertson to him- self. " Am I in my right senses ? Am I mysel ? — or is this a dream ? Me that was to be married the morn ? His wife ! — Oh, mercy ! mercy I — hoo lang am I to be the warld's laugh, and the warld's jeer !" And ho crushed the broken pipe beneath bis heel. " His wife !" he exclaimed and rushing across the room, adding — " Frailty, thy name is wonjun !'* CHAPTER III. The sea is silent, miii the winds of God Stir not its waters ; on its voiceless waves Thick diuliness presses as a mighty lo.id. Weighing their strength to slumber, rt'n- t.nth'a graves Tlic lonely .stars arc dreaminj ; and ilic wind, Henii^ltted on the desert, howls to find Its Iraeklesn path, as wonld a dyiuc liouinl. 'V\u: thick ciimds, wearied \vitli their eotn'hc all iLay, Hi'|iose, like shrouded (.'hosts, on the blatk air ; Or in tlie d.'irkness, having lost their w.'iy, Await the dawn ! 'Tis niidnii^lit reigns around — IMidni^'ht, wiien crime and murder quit their lair; Tio'ir footsteps, like their conscience — void ofsound ; Their mission, blood — ttieir recompense, despair i IIoiiii succee" inquired Mr Cuthbertson vehemently, and with a degree of indignation of which, to do him justice, he was seldom criminal. "What do you mean. Doctor .'"be repeated, raising his voice. " God forbid that I should wish the blood of a worm to lie at the door o' my deadliest enemy ! I have but gien e^-idence and testimony of the scenes and of the blood of which I was a witness — evidence, sir, that has convinced every weel-disposed mind, but your ain ; which, it is weel kenned, bears the mark of the beast, and the image of the suspected person's ! And could I, Doctor — could I see the blood of my best friend ■ — the blood of my mair than faither — on the face and the hands of his murderer, and not give evidence to the truth }" Mr Leslie would have replied, or ordered all, from the privilege of his profession, to withdraw. But Mary had rivetted her eyes upon the speaker. When he concluded, she arose, walked firmly across the floor to where he stood, and darting upon him a glance that struck dismay into his heart, and to the hearts of all — " Tell me, accusing spirit." she said, in a voice clear and slow, but dreadful and piercing as its wonted sounds were melodious — " tell me bv what right 3'e accuse my husband ?" She had never heard Henry named as being guilty ; and her fearful interrogation, the vehemence with which it was uttered, the absence of a single tear or a sigh — of anything like a woman's or a daughter's grief — clung like icicles to the hearts of all present. And she, whom yesterday they regarded as not inferior to an angel, they now shrank from as the wife of a murderer ; nor merely his wife, but his accomplice — bis accomplice in the murder of her own father ! Overpowered by the conviction, one by one, they slunk feai-ful from her sight. Each, in his ovra way, told his suspicions ; and, before night, the gentle JIary Robertson was whispered of T\'ith horror ; yea, tongues that in the morning bleat her, trembled to pronounce her name. Although Mr Cuthbertson did not participate in the idle suspicions of those around him regarding her, yet, awed by her appalling look, the unearthly eamestness of her tone and manuer united with the almost horrible calmness of her sorrow, he stood silent, quaking in her presence ; and as she cast upon him a deadly glance of accusation and, scorn, he also shrank from the room with the deluded villagers. Mary again took her seat by the bedside. Night came and the morning dawned ; and day succeeded day, but still she sat silent, motionless, and tearless ; her cheeks pale and emaciated, watching as a spirit by the bed of death. Buried in her own griefs, her eyes fixed upon her father's face, sleep approached her not ; of food she was abnost imcon- scious when presented ; and consolation fell upon her ears as on a lifeless thing. Life had, indeed, returned to her father; but, with it, reason had fled. Ignorant of all around him, he now fancied himself surrounded by Ids wife and his children. He spoke to them ; he called them by their names. The follies, and the glad days of youth, passed in array before him. Then would he call upon his ]\Iary, his poor lost I\Iary ! With him she was the infant — the darling — the pride of his age — and the ruined «-ife, within an hour I Again would he weep, raise his hands to bless her, burst into a loud laugh in the midst of his bless- ing, and cry — " The murderers !" and in the same breatli, " Your husband, filary !" Stiil her features moved not, and her eyes were dry as summer heat. The wild ravings of Sir Robertson tended to strengthen the conviction of Mr Cuthbertson and his friends, of the certainty of Henry's guUt; and the circumstances, augmented by all that indignation and personal suftVring could suggest, were transmitted to his family at Buckham Priory. Still IMr Leslie would admit of no steps for his apprehen- sion ; declaring that, although the life of !Mr Robertson was beyond hope, yet, as the fever abated, a lucid interval would take place before death, when the facts of the melancholy event might be learned from himself. Mr Leslie and Jlary were, therefore, the only individuals ignorant of the intelli- gence sent to the Priory ; and, for many days, with but momentary intermission, he continued by the bed of the sufferer, eager to catch the first word of certaintj' regarding the innocence or guilt of his unhappy friend. JIary sat be- side him as a pale ghost : she was neither heard to breathe nor seen to move ; but gazed, the skeleton of what she was, on her dying parent. He had sunk into a long and undisturbed sleep ; and Mr Leslie having announced that when he awoke his reason would have returned, Mr Cuthbertson, Janet, and tliree of the kirk elders, were anxiously w;iiting in the room. He at length awoke, and, with a fond, but feeble voice cried — " Mary ! — my child !" Every ear was strained to Ksten^every eye turned to the bed. She started from her long, death-like trance, and threw her arms around his neck. " ]\ly father 1" she cried wildlj', and pressed her lips to his. The}' were the first words she had spoken since demand ■ ing of Mr Cuthbertson why he accused her husband. " fily dear I\Iary !" said he, " I feel I have but a few minutes to live. Oall your Henry, that I may obtain his forgiveness — thav you both may receive the blessing of a dying father! I\Iy dear, dear child!" he added, and en- deavoured to press her to his breast TALES OF THE BORDERS. 5/i) li^he started to Iiis emliraoc Tlip tonrs l)nrst in torrciitg from licr eyes. A loud laugli rani^ tliioii^'h the room! Slio threw herself upon the hcil, and cried — " Am I not the wife of a murderer ! My father ) — say — is not your I\Iary the wife of her father's Tell me — tell me ! — are tlu^ hands of my Henry clean ? — shall I behold him again ? Sjieak 1 Oh, spealc, my fatlier !" "Your Henry! my beloved child !" said he ; ' no! no! where is my son?" Jlr Cuthbertson liunr; his head in confusion. The elders looked upon him ujibraidingly, and pressed closer to their minister. 5Ir Uohertson now briedy received from Mr Leslie an iccount of the suspicions that rested upon Henry, and their cause. He begged to be raised upon his bed; and, throwing his feeble arm around his daughter, said — " Forgive me, mv dear child — forgive j'our dying father ; and, when you meet your Hcnrj', olttain me also his forgiveness. Two men sprang upon me on the heath. I cried to Heaven for help; for I thought not that man could hear mo. I was wounded, cruelly wounded, when my cries brought a stranger to my assistance ! He closed with the unhappy men, and by their cries appeared to overpower them. I heard his voice — it was Henry's ! — my child, your injured husband's ! I endea- voured to fly — where I ran I know not. I rushed bleeding over the heath — the earth seemed turning with me — and I remember nothing until this hour. And now I feel that death is with rae ! My friends — farewell !" Ho took Mr Cuthbertson's hand — " Be a fatlier to my dear child ! Best, generous friend — bear Henry your for- giveness, and my blessing !" He pressed his daughter for the last time to his bosom — " God of the orphan, protect my Jlary ! Farewell ! — my child — my joy — farewell !" They raised her from his breast; but his spirit had passed into the presence of Him who gave it. Jlary fell upon her knees; she raised her eyes to Heaven. The sealed up foun- tains of her heart gushed out afresh ; and destroying joy held conflict with bitter agony, bereavement, and sorrow. Weeks passed on — a successor to Mr Robertson was al- ready nominated. Materials were placed around the Manse, in order to its undergoing improvements for his reception. To J\Iary they were a renewal of griefs ; and at times she almost regarded them as an insult to her sorrows. She had now to leave the hearth where her first smile of infancy was greeted by a parent's kiss. The furniture being to her unnecessary, and not knowing where to remove it, she felt compelled to announce it for sale. Previously, she had sent her father's books as a present to Mr Cuthbertson. On the day of sale, many attended to procure a remembrance of a man whose memory they esteemed. A stranger, however, whose motive appeared a dctcrniination to secure all, with- out regard to the value, was the sole purchaser. Many sur- mises were whispered round regarding him ; but he was un known to all. On several of the carts, however, in which the goods were conveyed away, appeared the «ord.'<- " Thimias Cullibcrlson, Esq., CutliherUnn Lodge'' JIary left the INIanse on the preceding day, and remainci! an inmate with a farmer in the neighbourhood. She crossed the little wooden bridge in calm resignation, her eyes fixed upon the ground, and fearful to cast a look behind. But Janet followed and wept. On the third morning after leav- ing the Manse — "Janet," said Mar}', "business of impoii- ance calls rae immediately to Enghir.d. At this season, and at your j'cars, it will be impossilile you can accompany me. In a few months — I hope — I trust, Janet, your Mary will be able to send for you again. In the meantime, at iMr Cuth- bertson's you will find a home — in him a friend. I have prepared you a conveyance, and must myself depiirt to- morrow." " Oh ! dinna speak o't ! — dinna think o't, my dear bairn !" cried Janet — " what is there in the season, or what is there in the distance, that I am na able to follow ye? Can ye tliink that I wad see you, you a young an' unprotected cratur, gang bunders an' hunders o' miles, wi' nacbody to look after ye — naebody to gle ye an advice! O Wary! neither you nor ano o' your i'ailher's house ever refused me a favour that I askeil — an' it surely wiiina be my ain iilary that will deny me, in a case like this, an' for her ain guid ? Dinna think o' leavin' me behint ye !" JJary threw her arms around her neck. "Distress me not, Janet!" cried she — " it is impossible 3'ou can accompany me. But we shall meet again !" Janet knew not the forebodings that distressed the mind of her young mistress, nor suspected the romantic and des- perate nature of her journey. " How can it be impossible .'" continued she — " my bairn! — how can it be impossible.'' But if it be His will that we maun part, oh, may it be only for a season, to ac- complish the all-wise purposes o' His unerring providence; for He can bring good oot o' apparent evil. An' oh, mind, Miiry, hinny, ye hae nae faither noo to direct ye ! — Ye winna hae me to advise ye ! But put your trust in the Faither o' the faithcrlcss. He will be your director. An' oh, should ye enter the houses o' the ungodly, where family duty is unheard, as duly as j'c rise, let the blessed thought o' the morning exercise in your faither's house, summon ye to your knees. And at night, when others sit down to cards an' to gambling, think that there were nae sic books in the house where ye were brought up ; an' that the hours they spend in wickedness an' folly, were there spent in prayer and in edification, concerning the things that belong to our eternal peace. I ken, my dear bairn, tliat my words winna be wasted upon you. An' oh, let me say wi' the wise man — ' If sinners entice thee, consent thou not.' Let them ca' it amusement — to kill time — or what they will. Life is uncertain an' time is precious. Flee ya rather to your closet, an' there, in secret, pour out your soul before a pra3'cr-hear- ing God. An' only think, if shuffling pieces o' painted pasteboard, sacrificing fortune, health, an' reputation, be for a moment to be put in the balance wi' the sublime pri- vilege o' holding conversation wi' Him that sitteth upon the throne for ever and ever, an' fiUeth immensity wi' his pre- sence ! They may mock you, they may persecute you; but think o' Him that was mocked, scourged, spit upon, an crucified on a tree, for your sake; an' remember that Ho has said — ' They who are ashamed o' Him before men, o' them will He be ashamed before His Father who is in heaven. Pray for a humble an' a contrite spirit. In a' your trials may He be your rock o' support ; an' wi' this assurance, I will go down to the grave in peace." Next morning, ]\Iary parted from her faithful domestic. The farmer, with whom she resided for a few da3-s, sent a cart with her luggage to the inn, where the coach passed for Edinburgh. Every inhabitant in the village — the old, the young, and the middle-aged — were assembled round the house, to say " Farewell !" and bestow their blessing. Every 03-0 was wet ; and, as she came forth to take their hands, hers alone was dry. She spoke not, for anguish fettered her tongue ; and as she, without a sigh, took the hand of the last, and went forth, a homeless orphan, from the midst of them, they might have said to each other — "The sadness which thou seest is not sorrow, Her wouuiis are far too deep for simple grief." CHAPTER IV H,ML, Pnidencc I wcII-fcd child of Forethouglit — hail I Cold, cautious Beauty, in n Qiiaker*s bonnet — Thon fiiend iiideod, when friends and patrons fail- Accept a stranger's, i^'onld-be-follower's sonnet 1 At lliy hard heart, the purseless fool may rail : — What, though thy cheeks with pity ne'er were pale — 37G TALES OF THE BOliDERS. Ne'er went ye shoeless — dinnerless — and ne'er From friendship begged a cup of meagre beer — . Ne'er bartered from thy back thy clothes fur sale. To help thy hunger — never met the sneer Of wealth nor wisdom — ne'er a copper gave, But saved thy pence a-day, and pounds a-year ; No man's mean debtor ; — and no passion's slave : Thy law, thy god — thy self; thy aim — to save. None will believe Henry's feelings to have oeen of the j most enviable description, as he crossed the little wooden bridge leading from the JManse; yet there are no moments of despair of such dark and continued depression, but that hope, like the flash of an angel's wing, will dart across the bosom ; and as we would liurry onward in desperation, will chain us in incertitude. Acted upon by the contention of such feelings, and as the shadow of hope is more potent in the soul than the dense and solid gloominess of despair, he luirried across the heath to the cottage of the widow ; wliere, having once met with Mary, lie believed that there he should he more immediately associated with the presence of her spirit — that there, at least, she would still be presert in re- membrance ; and perhaps he conceived, that, having found liim there once, there also she would fly again to find him. The supposition was sufficiently improbable ; but he is indeed a wi^e man who can resist believing that to be possible, which is the first of his desires. The widow was too blind to observe his agitation ; too deaf to interrupt him by con- versation ; and he had seated himself on the round stool by tlie turf fire, brooding in silence how to act, when hearing " the cries of one in jeopardy, He lose and ran." With the parties the reader is already acquainted. Having rushed upon the assailants without identifying the jbject of tlieir attack, he drew their fury upon himself; and holding with them a retreating conflict, separated them from each other. One of the ruftians, discharging a pistol without efl^ect, and, overpowered by Henry's superior strength, screamed to liis comrade for assistance ; and, Mpon regainin^r his feet, both fled for safety, leaving their unknown antago- nist to follow up the rescue of their victim. But the dark- ness of the night, and Mr Robertson's attempt at flight, thwarted his efforts. Therefore, after an inefi'ectual search for an hour, he re-entered the cottage. Wearied by the loneliness of the objects around him, and urged to change of scene by the irksome despondency of his feelings, as the shadows of the morning began to throw their first uncertain glimmering over the fading stars, he arose from the dying embers, which had withdrawn both their Iieat and light ; and approaching the bedside of the aged invalid, gave a last and an indistinct look of sympathy on her withered features, where time, disease, and poverty had left their ravages. The gloomy picture of wretchedness cut him to the heart. " Farewell, Peggy !" said he, and he cast a parting glance ciround the hovel ; where the dun rays of morning gave a deeper squalidness to the apartment, and rather than afiS'ord- ing light, made misery visible. " Are ye here yet, my bairn ?" inquired she anxiously — " whar are ye gaun .'" And she stretched forth her feeble hand to detain him. He made no reply ; but, drawing his purse from his pocket, laid it upon her pillow. From Mary's sufl'erings and circumstances, he feared the widow was deprived of her best or only friend. He farther considered himself as the principal cause of that deprivation ; and deemed it his duty to make, as he best could, equivalent restitution. It was partly this feeling of niggard justice, but more a mo- mentary gush of sympathy, that infl"ucnced the action, with- out reflecting upon what might be his own necessities. AH he knew of want was from the pages of some novelist, as ignorant of its moaning as himself, or the picture of a beg- gar who solicited his alms; but, as he droupod him his loose ponce, or a piece of silver, he stopped not to see hunger written on the eyeballs of the supplicant. Generosity, too is often the weakness of noble and ardent minds. It is a weakness that pleases in the act ; and, even where mis- placed or thoughtlessly bestowed, it is a " faibng leaning to the side of virtue ;" and the reflection, if not pleasing, has but little of bitterness. For three hours he wandered across the moors, which were arrayed in all the loneliness of winter sterility. The sheep were crowded together, and penned on the hill tops. The whistle of some lonely shepherd, and the barking of his faithful colly in reply, were the only sounds that broke upon the silent torments of our traveller. Though without caring where, or in what direction, his journey for the day might terminate, he purposely deviated from the main path. About noon he gained the summit of Dunse Law. Had the earth been touched by the finger of a. potent wizard, the burst of transformation could not have been more instan- taneous or enchanting. For hours, and but a moment be- fore, he had waded through the snowsof a desert, where winter moaned to the freezing air, or slept in the clefts of the bar- ren hills, undisturbed by life or vegetation. Such was the scene behind him. At his feet, the IMerse lay like a vast garden shielded from the storm, and looking glad in con- scious security. The Whitadder, breaking amidst hanging woods from the obscurity of the wilderness, poured its sound upon his ears. The sun, till then obscured by mountain mists, smiled over the snowy top of Cheviot, upon the fairy strath. The Blackadder, leaping from the icy fet- ters of its upland birth, ran to embrace the Whitadder ; smaller streams hastened to join them ; and the Tweed, rolling undisturbed, in deep majesty, down the middle dis- t.ancc, with the pride and the heart of a parent, received and had room for all. The sea, kissed by motionless clouds lay far to the east ; and, cheerful towns, glad villages, rich villas, and farm-steads groaning beneath a load of plenty, " Thick as autumnal leaves," studded the spacious valley, which was still lovely, though in its winter nakedness. The trees were leafless ; but the numerous forest-looking plantations of pines, added a greer variety to the scone. Hitherto the bleak hiUs were in unison with his feeh'ngs; but misery and melancholy are so foreign to the natural temperament of humanity, that it is almost impossible for the heart to be so soured as to continue long wholly insensible to the influence of surrounding objects. An impression of comfort and cheerfulness was difl'used around him ; and, unused to sorrow, when gladness met his eye, his breast answered the landscape with a sigh, and felt lighter. He stood for a moment to contemplate it. It was one of those long deep draughts of admiring observation, when the eves wander above, below, and around, till they swim in a whirl of poetry. But a man must be alone, before he can feel the soul of a breathing landscape. Were we travelling with a clever, impertinent, stage-coach hunter after the picturesque, who vents his stupid admiration by the mouthful at every turn of the road, we would go through Italy with such a fellow, and swear — " It is all barren." We know not how long he stood, for nature steals like sleep upon the senses; but he was aroused from his contemplation by the following unceremonious salutation — (To be continued.) WIJ.SON'S TALES OF THE BOUDEllS THE INllNlSTEirS DAUGHTER. {Cdiiliiiiiat.) " Tliat's a siclit no to I)0 seen ilka day ! Yo slioiild como up Ikmo an' lak a pi'cp at the AIitsu al)oiit tlu> end o' Alay. an i TALES OF THE BORDERa a do.en plain, tlirougli wliicli winded tlio Coquet and the Wansbeck. " Damp beds are a bad thing for the rheumatism," said Willie, as they reached the bridge over the former river ; " an' they sell an excellent preventive here in the Angler's Inn. It's nae use palavering," continued he, as Henry re- monstrated — " I tell ye it's nae use palavering ; there's a fang road before us afore bedtime." It would be an endless task, however, to follow our worthy drover through his houses of call, at which he felt B habitual thirst that he conceived to be natural. During most of the day, according to the adage, it did not rain but poured. The roads became at first clammy, and in tiie end almost impassable. At length, drenched, wo-begone, and bespattered with mud, like two spirits escaped from the De- luge, they reached Newcastle, and silently bent their steps down Northumberland Street. The rain abated none of its violence, and again Henry regretted the prodigality of his generosity, in parting with the entire contents of liis purse. He had slept none the preceding night. Misery, fatigue, and the long continuance of the cold bleaching rain, battled in his heart, and pressed upon his pride, with a weight that caused it to bend, though it could not break it. He drew liis breath quick and short. An anxious, disquiet feeling, approaching to peevishness, seemed sticking in his tliroat, .and he longed that his companion would speak of halting for the niglit. After proceeding down Northumberland and Pilgrim Streets, nearly a mile in a direct line, Willie, iialting before a gateway, said — "Now, I usually stop down iiere, at the Bird an' Bush ; it's a kind o' carrier's quarters ; but, ye see, the like o' the York Hotel is aboon my fit; an' I'll an- swer for our being comfortable. Come awa — faith we'll liae a nicht o't ! A jug o' boiling brandy, mistress, for twa drowned men !" shouted he, as they entered the house. Next morning, Henry desired his friend to favour him with his address. ■' Now, what are ye driving at, Mr Walton ?" said Willie, eagerly, and with a degree of sorrow; " ye are surely no thinkin' o' leavin' me already. Stay a day or twa, man, to see the toun. Ye see, I'm here about a bit lawsuit ; an' if I dinna get it settled liere, I dinna ken but I may hae to gang up to London. The matter o' five thousand pounds is worth the lookin' after ! Hoots ! dinna say ony mair about partin' yet — will ye no, Mr Walton ?' His honest and unsophisticated kindness was oppressive to his young companion, whose first wish was an oppor- tunity to reward him. " Whether we talk of parting or not," said Henry, " let me, at least, have the happiness of knowing where to find you hereafter:^' " Weel," replied the other, " onybody kens whar to find Wull Watson, o' Finchey-hill, by Edrom, in the county o' Berwick. I maun awa oot, an' see my attorney body But noo, mind, Mr Walton, dinna be oot o' the way at denner-time; I tak it exactly at ane o'clock." Henry being left alone, walked to the quayside, with the hope of finding a vessel in which he might obtain a passage for London ; where, he conceived, it would not be difficult, amidst his own or his father's friends, to procure the advance of a sum sufficient to defray the expense of conveyance, and overcome his embarrassments. A neat-looking brig was clearing out, and on the eve of sailing He stepped aboard, and inquired if lie could be accommodated with a passage to London. " Like enough," said the mate, who was busied in giv- ing directions for hauling off; " but go aft, and speak to the master." A black, porky, surly-faced man, in a shabby blue sur- tout, like a cloak thrown over a barrel, stood smoking a pipe by the side of the companion, and overlooking the prepara- taons for sailing. To him Henry repealed his question. "A passage! — why — yes," said the skipper; 'tr.oa mayst have a passage ; but where's thy luggage ? — we be hauling off^." This was a question for which Henry was unprepared and his momentary hesitation did not escape the lynx-eyed tyrant of the brig, who immediately added — " You've got none, eh .'' Well — all's one wi' us ; a guinea and a half, if you please, sir. That is wur usual fare — we make nyae re- duction for want o' luggage, lad. Be quick, if ye please, sir — hang it ! d'ye see, they are taking away the planks !" On Henry's assuring him he would be paid on their arriving at London — " Ashore ! ye swindling scamp I" voci- ferated the skipper. " Ashore ! — or, by the Lord Harry ! I'll chuck ye overboard! Here's a precious scoundrel!" cried he to the people on the quay — " tried to humbug mye out of a passage !" Henry would have felled him to the deck, but he imme- diately sought protection among his crew; and the vessel being then about ten feet from the shore, he sprang upon the bulwarks, and with reckless violence threw himself into the midst of the assembled crowd. Those who the instant before were prepared to receive him with hootings, gathered around him in wonder ; some declaring, he had made " a clean joomp of five y.irds !" Rage, and the tumult of his ti'oubled feelings, flashed from his eyes. He pressed through the throng like a mad- man. Many were wistfid to offer him a kindness, but quailed at the wild haughtiness of his looks. The face of man sickened him. In every eye, he read suspicion and scrutiny ; and huiTying across the bridge, and up Gates- head, he turned oft' the road into the fields, and threw iiint- self down by the side of a deserted coal-mine, in secret to give vent to the bitterness of his spirit. The day passed, and the boisterous agony of his bosom subsided into a gnawing calmness. At midnight, he ai-o«e shivering and benumbed, the night damp dripping from bia glossy hair, and turned towards the town. He felt he •H'otdd rather die than again be dependent on the generosity of his late fellow-traveller. CHAPTER V Well, of all teasing tortures, sure the worst Is, on some tedious journey, to be curst In a companion, ivith a shapeless thing Clad in the scrapings of an insect's wing i A pert vain fop, a libertine, and fool, Who minces oaths per rood, and walks by i-ule ; — The barber's nightmare dream ! — the tailor's dread !— Who, if you cannot sleep, will " talk you dead !'' Who deems his sickly face, and scented glove, Sufficient charms for every lady's love ; Nor doubts the brightness of his tortured hair, To be a passport to insult the fair ! Mary's friends, who assembled to bid her adieu, had again returned, weeping, on their way to Buinpatb. She h.id parted with the lingering few who attended her to the coach, seen their hands waved, and heard their farewell — — " God bless you !" pronounced with tears ; but her own I cheeks were still dry. Yet their clear paleness, and melan- ' choly expression, appeared like a marble sanctuary of grief, lighted by the lamp of sorrow which burned within. Her youth, and the elegance of her figure, rendered still more interesting by her garb of mourning, which east its deep shadows over the ivory purity of her beauty, singled her out as an object of sympathy to some, and of admiratiuu j and scrutiny to all her fellow-passengers I It was a beautiful March morning, ruttled only byabrccre from the south-west, which, although not cold, was occa- sionally too strong to be pleasant The whins were already TALES OF THE BORDERS. 37s adorning tlie liarreti Iii>.illi with tlioir golJun covering; and, as tliey apiMoaciu'd llio iiortlieni oxtrotnity of the moun- tains, ill a moment, sprinj,' rejoiced in the son;,' of the hirk, and the labours of the hiisbaiidinan. The empire of steri- lity was suddenly stayed in the pride of its desoh'ition ; and II straigiit line, stretciiing from the sea as far as the eye could reacli, seemed to declare — " Hitherto slialt thou come, «nd no farther ;" while in summer the heather put forth Its gorgeous blossoms, and the strong wheat, towering by Its side, waved giacefidly over it ; the one touching the other, and each thriving in tlie strength of its own true region. Mary's travelling companions grew clamorous in their admiration of the scene; and a small gentleman, who was determined to be nothing, if not critical, checked what he considered their want of taste, by observing that the land- scape was spoiled by too great a proportion of water. While another remarked, that " he was perfectly of his opinion, and thought that the country would be much finer, were it not for the tir trees, and others that he did not know the name of" " By my faith ! but ye are twa judges, I warrant ye !" said a sturdy countryman, with an equally sturdy cudgel between his knees, and who had hitherto devoted his atten- tion exclusively to a sagacious-looking dog which occupied a place by his side — " ye are twa judges, without a doot ! Wud and water destroy a landscape ! Was ye born in a coal-pit, gentlemen ? — or in the region round about Bow- Bells, where the smoke and the trees, I understand, are meikle o' a colour ? I tliocht yer famous Doctor Johnson said we hadna a tree in a' our country !" To these sarc.-istic, and half unintelligible observations, the young gentlemen deemed it prudent to be silent ; and the first-mentioned connoisseur — who appeared to have been brought to the coach in a bandbox, fresh from the hands of his tailor— with the impudent and unfeeling effrontery of an empty coxcomb, who considers his own insignificant form and disagreeable f;ice irresistible, commenced an attack upon Mary, who had hitherto remained silen<:, playing off his impertinent badinage, to the edificiition of his own ear, and the annoyance of all around him. But she, buried in her own thoughts, did not even deign to answer him with one monosyllable — with one glance of scorn. An angry scowl, from time to time, was given by the countryman, who sat facing him ; and another from the dog, that looked in its master's face, and, catching the expression of his eyes, gave a low growl, indicating its wish to punish the object of his resentment. The young gentleman, however, still affected to despise the displeasure of his plebeian fellow-traveller ; and, throughout two stages, be continued to persecute, with ill-timed miith and vulgarity, which he mistook for wit, the lovely and unprotected being whom chance had thrown for a few hours by his side. Sinking beneath the weight of her sorrows, she was rest- •ng her brow pensively on her hand, when the coach stop- ped for a few minutes at an inn by the way-side ; where lier loquacious companion, whose assumed familiarity now amounted to insolence, having called for a glass of brandy and water, attempted to pull her hand from her face, say- ing — " Come, my pretty dummie, if y(m can't speak, you can p«rliaps drink !" " Drink yersel', ye infernal impudent puppy !" exclaim- ed tlic countryman ; and, at the same instant, raising his cudgel, he dashed the glass in a hundred pieces, spilling the brandy and water on the inexpressibles of the exquisite, and causing the blood to gush from the ends of his fingers, which had received part of the blow " Scoundrel !" vociferated the trembling pattern of the Jasliions, half choked with pain and passion, while he stretched out, at arm's length, his gentle fingers, dripping with f ore; and casting a rueful look at his soiled cas- simeres, added — " Scoundrel ! you shall auswcr for this !" " No a word cot o yer head ! ye unmannerly vaga- bond !" cried the other ; " no a word oot o' yer head I— or there's the grund for ye ' " And, suiting the action to the word, ho seized him neck and heel, and the next moment the thing of " shreds and patches," his fashionables covered with Afarch dust, was weeping, and mincing genteel oaths upon the pavement. " Let him lie there, and be hanged to him," said the countryman ; " he deserves a' he's got." " No, no !" interrupted Mary ; " let no one suffer upon tny account. The ignorance of the young man is his suffi- cient punishment." " I wad say that wad bo bad logic, ma am, in a court o law," said her champion ; " but, howsever, if I helped tho insignificant cralur duon, I'll help him up again." He leaped from the coach, raised the gentleman like a child in his arms, and placed him again in his former seat, remarking — " Noo, see that ye be quiet till we get to Ed- inburgh, least a warse thing liappen ye. But I didrui in- tend to smash yer bits o' leddy-like fingers, after a'. Are they sair hurt?" And taking thera in his own Herculean fist to examine them, he inquired — " Has ony o' ye a bit rag ?" The coach drove off ; and Mary, having dressed the wounds of her late tormentor, he hung his head upon his breast, and was silent during the rest of the journey. For some time they had seen Arthur's Seat uprearing, in bold magnificence, its stony front, and bearing, even at this view, some resemblance to a lion preparing to spring upon its prey ; together with the Gallon Hill and its observatory , and the proud castle, high towering in gigantic majesty be- tween them, like the genius of war, defying its thunderbolts. And now the fair City of Palaces, glistening in the sun, opened to their right, like a sea of silver ; while, to their left, grey and venerable with years, rose pile upon pile, house rising upon house, in eccentric but sublime array, bearing the shapes of departed ages ; and their hoary sum mils, partly veiled in the cloudy columns which fioated around them, seemed like the ghosts of time, looking down, " more in sorrow than in anger," from their irregular and strong towers, on the beauty and order of modern improve- ments ; while Leilh, stretching out its arms to embrace it, and a hundred fair gardens smiling around their union, with the blue Frith circling them, and bearing the wealth of other nations to their threshold, make Edinburgh appear, to the eye of the traveller, one of earth's fairest cities. On their stopping at the Black Bull, the countryman sprang first to the ground, and, with the air of a cavalier politely assisted Mary from the coach. " I ask your pardon, ma'am," said he ; " but, as I ken ye are a stranger, if ye will alloo me, I'll jist tak yer bit trunk under my arm, and shew ye to ony place ye may be gaun to ; for I ken every fit o' Edinburgh, jist as weel as I ken Burnpalh or Cowdingliain." She expressed her gratitude for his kindness ; but beg- ged that he would not think of burdening himself with her trunk. " Burdsn hinny !" said he ; " I wush I micht ne'er liae a greater burden, than to carry it back th' uiclit again, to whar it cam frae ! Mind ye, tbac cadie an' porter bodies are extortionable craturs, whan they get baud o' ony ane that they think they can impose upon." And, throwing the trunk upon his shoulder, he added, " Now, ma'am, if ye'll jist say whar ye wish to gang, I'm at yer service." Mary knew but little of Edinburgh, and that little ap- peared to her like the broken reuiembrance of a dream. She was here without friends, almost without an acquaintance; and the only individual whose house she could look to as a teiuuurary home during her stay in the Scottish capital, was 380 TALES OF THE BORDERS. h commercial gentleman, called Lindsay, resior^ng in Brown Square, who had been liiglily esteemed by, and v-as distantly related to her father. On her signifying a wish to be con- ducted there — " To Brown Square !" said the countryman, whofli the reaaer will have perceived wa? no other than Willie Watson, the Berwickshire drover — " To Brown Square ! — ye shall be there in ten minutes. An', besides, it wunna tak me oot o' my way in the least, for my line o' ousiness, ma'am, lies in the Grassmarket ; an' I can just whup down Merchant Court, an' be there in a jiffy, after seein' ye safe." On arriving at the house of Mr Lindsay, the footboy who opened the door stated that his master was in Glasgow, and that Mrs Lindsay and daughters were at home, but were then dressing, in order to go out to an evening party. Mary's heart felt sick. There was a coldness in the accent and manner of the very boy. She knew Mr Lindsay only ; his wife and daughters she had never seen. She hesitated in what manner she should give in her name, and her confu- sion became visible. She was shewn into a parlour, and Willie, having placed her trunk in the passage, seemed anxi- ous to witness her reception before leaving; but Mary took liis hand, thanked him for his friendly care and attention, and desired that, if possible, she might see him again before he left town. " Ye may depend on tbat, ma'am," said he, " ye may de- pend on that" — and a tear stole down his weather-beaten cheek — " I wad hae liket to see hoo ye are to be situated before I left ye ; but, although I am only a plain farmer, I'm no insensible o' what is due to guid breedin'. Sae I'll ' bid ye guid-day the noo, ma'am; but I'll niak it my busi- ness to ca' the morn, afore I gang east again ; an', if ye hae otiy word to send, I wuU tak it as a favour to be the bearer." The honest drover, making a slight bow, worth all the formal suppleness of superficial politeness, took his leave. Mary remembered having seen him formerly; and had heard him -spoken of, but only as a wrestler and a pugilist, whose quarrels were in the mouth of every one, and the terror of a peaceable neighbourhood. But now she could only look upon him as a warm-hearted man, who, whatever were his faults, could not be destitute of redeeming virtues. Half-an-hour passed, and she was still left to muse upon her reception, without seeing either Mrs Lindsay or her daughters. She felt it as an indignity to a friendless orphan — to the only child of a man who befriended them, and placed them in the path of fortune. She had arisen with the intention of leaving the house, and seeking a lodg- ing elsewhere, when Mrs Lindsay and her three daughters, rustling in a gaudy and tasteless display of showy silk, rich brocade, and Brussels lace, with head-dresses as ridiculous rtud unnatural as silver tissue, golden ears of corn, artificial hair, and the wearied fingers of their maid could make them, sailed into the room. Each in her turn slid towaids Mary, tike a boat gliding for a few yards by a single stroke of the oars — halted within three feet, like a young recruit at the word of command — dropped a low and graceful congee — gently extended the tip of her fore-finger — smiled — whis- pered — and withdrew to a chair. The mother and daughters having paid their formal salu- tation to their visiter — " You look shockingly pale, child," said the former ; " don't you think so, girls ?" And again turning to Mary — " I believe your father and Mr Lindsay were acquainted — were they not?" " They were, ma'am," answered Mary, shocked at the cold indifference of a question so little to have been anticipated. " Your father is dead lately, I think my husband was say- ing," returned the other Mary could only reply, " Yes !" She would have wej)!, but indignation at the unfeeling iugratitude of the other withheld lier tears. " And met with his death ratber unfortunately too, did he not?" continued Mrs Lindsay. This was too much. A crowd of thoughts and recollec- tions flashed at once upon her bosom ; she replied only with a sigh, and the tears burst forth. " Nay, do not distress yourself, dear child," said the wife of her father's friend — "those sort of things will happen, you know ; and our tears can do no good." " Perhaps Miss Robertson is fatigued with her journey and will take a glass of wine," said the youngest daughter, whose heart was not touched by the frigid affectation of he' mother and sisters ; and she hastened to present it. " I am sorry Mr Lindsay is from home," added the ma tron, " and we do not expect him before to-morrow. Do you intend making any stay in town ?" " Only a few days," rejoined Mary. " And perhaps you have not yet procured a lodging?" in quired the other " Oh, dear mamma," replied the youngest, who at thai moment entered with the wine, " I am sure Miss Robertson will have no objections to sleep with me ; and, if she only do, I shall be so happy." " True, child!" returned the mother; "and I should be very happy if she would : but remember your father is from home, and we are just going out to a party, so that you see the thing is quite impossible — we cannot leave Miss Robert- son alone." " Nay, nay, marama," said the daughter; " you and sisters can give my apologies to Lady Sillerdykes, (should she dis- cover I am absent,) and I shall remain at home to bear Mis Robertson company, which will give me a great deal more pleasure." " Do not name it, my dear friend," said Mary ; " you nor any one shall make a sacrifice of enjoyment for me. I have met with trials more severe than the procuring of a lodging, or passing a night alone." " She is the most foolish, wilful girl in the world," re- sumed the mother. " To talk of not going to my Lady's! — • when — would you believe it, Miss Robertson ? — these four dresses, which were made for the occasion, cost one hundred and twenty pounds ! For the life of me, I don't know what her father will say when the bill is presented ! And yet to talk of not going ! — not going, indeed ! Do you suppose if you will not appear in public, that your father is to keep you in private all your life !" " La ! now mamma !" said the laughing girl, " how yon do talk ! Get husbands for sisters before you think of me." As she spoke, a loud knocking was heard at the front door. Mrs Lindsay bit her lips — the two elder sisters looked to each otl>er in dismay. The youngest flew smil- ing to the passage, and entered, holding her father's hand, saying — "JNliss Robertson, father! — yourfriei>d — my friend — from Burnpath." " Miss Robertson !" exclaimed Mr Lindsay, who had un- expectedly returned. He hurried forward, pressed her hand fervidly within his. He gazed on her face for a few mo- ments with silent tenderness; and, at length, in a voice broken with emotion, said — "Welcome! — welcome, beloved child (l, hy nvi-rwrnuf^Iit civility, to atdtu' for lior |)a>-t iiidill'oriMU'c. And liaviti^', ik slio con- zt'ivc'd, hy licr iiltentions and protestiitioiis of alloctioii for Mfiry, siifTii-iently dcliglitcd lior husliand to vi'iiluro upon i'lforminfr liim of tlu- invitation to Lady Sillcrdylay, in the atti- tude of adoration. " Such a discovery !" cried lier sister. "Al;! my dear Airs Walton !' said the youngest, leap- ing towards her, " and you are married, are you? M'ell, I wish you joy with my whole heart." '' 1 trust I may rejoice that it is so, my amiable frinr.d," l' replied Mr LIndreceese as a mantie-maker ! An' what's the great fault ye liae to find wi' him sayin, that this is ' fine weather for the liarvest?' Is it no fine weather for bringin' it forward; an', therefore, I say it's fine weatb.er for the harvest — an' the laird was richt. Had he said, ' Here's fine harvest weather,' ye micht hae spoken — but" ■ " Hech, man ! where did ye learn to argue ?" interrupted a listener ; " ye wad made a famous writer to the signet." " Or an advocate before the Lords o' Session !" returned another, sarcastically. " It wad be worth half-a crown to liear bim and .John the bedo^er yoked," added the farmer. And the party dispersed. The domestics in the Lodge were endeavouring to testify their joy at their master's return. Each flew to proffer him a hundred little services, or make inquiry into every want. Old Janet threw aside her stocking; and, without perform- ing the customary formalities of adjusting her cap and apron, Dustled down stairs to welcome lier favourite and friend. He was kindly shaking hands with the servants, and thank- ing them for their attention. They withdrew as Janet approached, and he hastily rose to meet her. " Welcome ! welcome hanie. Sir !" cried slie ; " an' sair, sair lookin' we have a' had for ye ! But, oh ! did ye find lier ? — hae ye seen my ain bairn ?" " Yes ! yes, Janet, I've seen her !" replied he. " Heaven kens — and my disconsolate, mourning spirit kens — I have seen her ! Yes, Janet, I liave seen her ! But, sit down — sit down. Hech, woman ! it's been a laiig journey, and a sad one. My voice by niglit has been like the troubled M-ind pn the dark sea. Oh, Janet! ye may think my grief unreasonable, but mine was no common love — it was strong as the judgments o' eternity!" " Oh, Sir! Sir!" said Janet — "there's nane kons yer feelings better than I do — and nane, I'm sure, that has mair cause to mingle her tears o' mourning »i' yer lamentation : but, oh ! my wortliy friend ar.d benefactor, in the midst ' f our sorrow, let us remember the Hand that atliicts us, an not yield to sinfu and profane language." " Janet," said he, " when the very heartstrings are stangin' and writhin' round the oosom, like adders, the tongue canna wale the words. This may be a judgment upon me — for it wasna love — it was adoration! — an' though it may crush me to my grave, it's adoration still. Without her, an' my life is to live and feel death for ever! Death — wi' the la^t pangs o' life! Death — wi the horrors o' the grave ! Death — wi' a' that's terrible hereafter!" " Oh, my freend! my freend !" cried Janet, " if it be His will, may ye find peace and comfort to yer troubled spirit !' " Peace an' comfort !" he exclaimed — " na ! na ! — nae- thin' upon this earth can now gie peace an' comfort to me, but the spade — the shool — the kirkyard ! Talk o' peace an' comfort to the deein' traveller in the desert, wlia has the burnin sand for a windin'-sheet, and the scorchin' wind to cool his parched tongue! But what's death in the wil- derness, Janet to the desolation o' the soul! — what's the Durning sand to the burnin' brain o' despair! — and what's the scorchin' wind an" the parched tongue, to the witherin' an' consumin' agony o' love without hope ! — o' a heart dried up for ever ! for ever !" " Do try an' compose yersel', Sir," said Janet. " I wad fain ask a question or twa about my bairn ; but while ye are in such agitation, I canna — I daurna. But, oh ! how has she been ? How did she get tliere ? Is he good till lier ? An' whatfor did she no write? — or hae ye a letter? Has she no forgotten my counsel ? Are his family guid to my bairn ? Oil, Sir! try an' compose yersel' for a single minute, and answer me only that one question." " Oh, Janet !" answered iie, " ciinna ask me, I implore ye, for I canna answer. My bein' there is like a dream — (for he had been to London in quest of her) — a painfu, painfu' dream ! But I surely saw her — yes, I surely saw our ain Mary ! — drooping like a snaw-drap, and fair as the alabaster ! But I mind nae mair ! — naethin' ! naethin' !" " Ob !" said Janet, " if it were the Lord's will that I might be permitted to see my dear bairn again !" " Ye shall see her, Janet," said Mr Cnthbertson, calmlv, and he rose and took her hand ; " ye shall see her, Janet. I mind naething distinctly, but I fear I hae added affliction to the spirit I beheld sinking, an' that thocht is mair bitter to endure than a' my sorrows. I'm a lonely, friendless bein", wi' nane to share my griefs — nane to mourn for me. I had but one hope — one desire. It was buried iiere, Janet" — (and he laid his hand on his breast) — '' it was buried here for years, and for yeais. The joys o' life, the melody o' existence, were locked up wi' its very bein' — but now it's gane — it's broken — it has perished, like the first sound o our infant voice ! — and they're gane also. I hae but ae wish left, an' I will perform it. 1 will pray for fortitude. I will — I tiiiist see her again ; an' you, Janet, shall accompany me." A few days after this conversation, the family carriage, whicli had not been half-a-dozen times without the coach- house since the death of the former i\lr Outhbertson, was put in preparation for a journey. A footman took his seat behind; .Janet was handed by the laird into the vehicle; and, after wishing good-bye to his household, lie took his place by her side. None knew their destination, save that tliev took the English road, by way of Ottei burn. (7'o be cuncludcJ.) I W 1 L S (> N'S ©iflton'cal, CTraattionnvi), antf J^mnQinMibe rwy lALES OF THE BORDERS THE MINISTER'S DAUGHTER ( Concluded. ) With what surross old Cuthlicitson and Janet Gray pursued their inquiries in London, ■will be now seen. Mary negan to be in want. With a trenibling hand she took a wateh — the p^ft of her father — from her neck. She gazed on it and wept. " It was thine ! it was thine, my father !" she cried — " thy last gift to thy poor child ! But forgive me ! — my father, forgive thy Mary ! It must be done !" She was ignorant of its value ; but trusting to the honesty of the world, and kno\\-ing it at least was worth more than what was required for immediate necessities, with an anxious and a throbbing heart she left her lodgings to otler it in pledge. Every step seemed leading her to something re- 8ei}ibling guilt — to an action for which she blushed. Iler soul appeared to shrink within itself; and her body moved onward mth a consciousness of misery and of shame. Every eye in the passing crowds looked as if fixed upon her, and every eye in those crowds seemed to read her errand as .she passed them. She was passing do^vn Holbom, her e3'esfell upon the words, " Moncj/ lent." She stood still for a mo- ment. The mndow was filled -with every varied token of misfortune and dissipation, from the jewelled watch and wearing apparel do>'\ni to the prayer-book ; and the ancient arms of Lombardv were suspended from the door. Tl^•ice she essayed to enter, and resolution failed. In vain she wiped away the tears from her eyes, for others uncalled on took their place, " I must ! I must !" she murmured with a sigh ; and yet a third time her hand Avas on the door, her foot upon the threshold. " Guidness and mercy !" exclaimed a voice behind her — and an arm was suvere pressing around them. " Dear friends," said Marv, '•' I cannot — I \n\\ not endure this. You know I do not feel less at this meeting than you ; but you would not have us to become a spectacle and expose our feelings, and the circumstances of our family, on a public street. Be composed, dear Janet." She took Caihhertson's hand— "Come, brother, I claim your protec- tion." "And ye shall liae it," replied he, kiudly ; " if I've said or dune onything amiss, only forgie me ! For every now and then there's a mkt comes c-.^TC ro>- Roul, and I hardly 386 !,rALES OF THE B0EDEE3, ken ^vlietlier the past's the piesentj or the present's the finst, or hoc it is, or where I am. But ye'll forgie me, Mary." •' Name not forgiveness — I have nothing to forgive," she returned ; " but let us leave this crowd." " Crowd ! — what crowd ?" he inquired, with a look of stupidity ; and turning round, only then became aware of the presence of some hundred individuals, whom he and Janet had dra\\'n aroujid them. " In the name o' wonder, folk !" lie exclaimed, " what are ye a' gapin' an' starin' at ? Is nature sic a sti-anger to yer breasts, that ye will stand glo^mn' there lil-ith transport. "Bless thee for thy choice, Hal!" exclaimed Sir Robert gazing with a look of pride alternately on both. " Thou art father's own son I Thou hast given me the loveliest daughter in all England ! And bless thee, too, my ovm best child," he added turning to IVfary; " thou shalt be happy as the day is long. Thou shalt be mistress of my house, and not even thy o\\Ti Hal shall contradict thee; and I will settle a portion upon thee myself." " Excuse me, sir," said Mr Cuthbertson, " but my sistei needs nae portion ; why I call her sister ye will learn here- after. I, sir, have been a lonely man, and a miserable man, like a planet driven frae the universe, and plunging in deeper darkness through a' eternity. But comfort has at last stolen owre my spirit, as an infant fii's asleep to the lullaby o' its mother ; and joy has broken again upon my head, like the first dawning o' a summer morning. I have a right, sir, to make reparation to your son and to my sister, for I have been (though innocently) the author o' a deal o' their afflic- tions ; and at this happy meeting, if ony o' yc feel mair joy than me, there are none o' ye feel a holier satisfaction. Henry," he added, " tlid the poor petition which ye wad see in the pocket-book I left wi' ye, before I gaed to Scotland, meet your approbation }" The pocket-book was still unopened, and Henry offered to return it, expressing the depth of his gratitude, and stat- ing that he had not looked on its contents. "Keep iti TALES OF THE BOEDERS. Sjl keep it!" exclaimocl the other, ■ yo will tlicro fiiiil ;i copy o' the instruinont M-liich convoys my sister's jiortion." It was in fact a copy of liis will, bequcatliing to lier ami Iicr heirs, the estate of Ciithbcrtsoii Loil<;e, together -with a thousand pounds, payable Immediately by a hanker in Lon- don. Mpnths of unmingled joy rolled over the Jiarty before they k^ft the Priory. Sir Kobert -was about to enter pro- ceedings against Northcott, when intelligence arrived that that disgrace of humanity had, by self-destruction, avoided a more public, though not more disgraceful, death. Mary was a mother ; and the sole delight of Jlr Cuthbert- son was to act as preceptor to her children. lie became at once their guardian and playmate, entering witli the sim- plicity of a child into all their sports. The desolation of heart, of which ho had been the victim, became like a half- reraembcred dream, or an autumnal storm that had passed away, and left the mellow beams of a setting sun to throw flieir softened light upon the plain. He never again parted from his friends, hut remained ivith them in Devonshire, and every summer accompanied them to his own estate in Roxburghshire. Old Janet lived to behold " her bairn's" bairns, virtuous as their mother; and as age drew on, Sir Robert vowed he felt younger and happier eveiy da}'. Henry and Mary made several visits to Burnpath, and caused a cottage to be built for the helpless old widow, m wtio^c ruined hovel ihey bad infit upon the moors, and with whom Henry had left his purse. 'J'birty years have passed over their wedded lives, and on them middli! age has dcscendeil imperceptibly, as the calm twilight of a lovely evening, when the stars steal out, and the sunbeams die away; as a holy stillness glides through the air, like the soft breathings of an angel, unl'obling from his celestial wings the rosy curtains of a summer night; and the conscious earth, kissed by the balmy sjiirit, dreams and smiles, and smiling dreams itself into the arms of night and of repose. Mary lias lost somewhat of her syljih-like form, and Henry his elasticity of step, but they have become middle-aged together. They have half-forgotten the like ness of the face of their youth, yet still the heart of youth, with its imperishable aftcetions and esteem, throbs in either bosom, smiling calndy upon time and its ravages; and still in the eyes of Henry his partner seems as young, as fair, and as beautiful, as when, in the noon-tide of her loveliness, she blushing vowed to be his upon his bosom. Their chil dren have arisen around them and called them blessed, and thev have beheld those children esteemed and honoured in society. JMary has taught Henry that virtue is always young, and that there is no true virtue which has not reli- gion for its source ; and Henry, in return, has taught Jlary that " in the husband he has not forgot that he is still hei lover." The folloiniuj formed part of ilic first edition of the Tales of the Borders: — It is our painful duty to send around the land the tidings of the lamented death of IMr John Mackay Wilson, the Author of these Tales. This event has come upon us ut an hour when, in truth, " we looked not for it." That grim messenger, whose afflicting visits he has so often affect- ingly described, has borne his irresistible demand upon him — thrown the gloom of desolation over the bright scene that was expanding before his eves — and left, in darkness and in son-ow. his bereaved and afflicted friends. The event which we thus deplore, took place on the morning of the 2d instant. Thirty-one short years only had rolled over him in this vale of tears. His sun had not j'et gained its meridian splendour, when the dark cloud of death overshadowed him, and has left us to look .after him in sadness across that bourn from which no traveller ever returns. His early days were spent in peace and happiness under his parental roof, and were marked by a kind of native thirst after knowledge. His tasks, when at school, were a mere pastime and pleasure to him; and when he arrived at those years when young men make choice of a profession in life, he fixed upon that of a Printer. This threw liim, as it were, into a situation where he had an opportunity of drinking at the streams of human knowdedge that passed, by him. Naturally fond of literary pursuits, he soon exhausted his scanty means of gratifying his taste in Bcr- wick-on-Tweed, and leaving the home of his childhood, and the scenes of his early days, his aspiring spirit carried him to London, to quench its thirst for knowledge and for fame at those deeper and purer streams that flow so copiously in the British Metropolis. But, like many an aspiring and inexperienced youth, he did not seem to calculate on the fact, that those streams, which iu their warm fancy " heal disease and soften pain," are within doors which golden keys alone can open. Difficulties and hardships, not a few, pressed hard upon him; and some of the most touch- ing descriptions in the Border Talcs of sufferings endured by the aspirant for fame, were actually endured by himself; and, though under a fictitious name, the sobs and tears which involuntaril}' burst from the family circle when these tales were read, >vere poured forth for him whose pen had described them. Often, amid the wealth and gaiety of London, has he wandered homeless and friendless; hut all the waters of affliction through which he nafsed could not repress the ardour of his spirit, or quench his thirst for tame. Far in the distance of years, and through a rugged and difficult pathway, where many a storm raged and many a dark and heavy cloud floated, he looked steadily onward to the object of his ambition. Despair seemed an entire stran- ger to him; and the strength of his own mind stayed him amid darkness and amid tempests. Disappointment and poverty did indeed drive him away fi'om the British Jlctro- polis, and he was forced to seek in the provinces \vhat he could not find there— nor did he do so in vain; for as the public prints often stated, his eloquence was admiied, and his toils wei-e softened by the approbation of thousands of his coimtrymen. But, amid the adulation that he met \vith. 31)2 TALES OF THE BOEDERS. stem penury was still his companion. If lie -was reaping ' a golden harvest of opinions," it was often -Nvith liim as it had been with many illustrious literary men before him, he had scarcely wherewithal to satisfy the cravings of na- ture. This did indeed make inroad upon his constitution, and sowed the seeds of that disease which at last carried hira away from us, but could not check the flights of his j.pirit onward to happier and more prosperous days ; and, tlioutrh the daikness which hung around hira, seemed to move hut tardily away, it did pass, and the sun of prosperity shot out from amidst it, and promised a rich reward for his literary privations and toils. But, alas! how uncertain are all earthly things ! Scarcely had that sun burst through the clouds which had so long concealed it — scarcely had his bosom been warmed with this hope, and scarcely had he prostrated his antagonist. Privation, when Death laid his arrest upon him, and terminated for ever all his earthly en- terprises. During his sojourn in Edinburgh in 1829 he wrote, at the suggestion of a gentleman of high literary eminence in that cit}', a melo-drama entitled, " The Gowrie Conspiracy." The favourable recejjtion which this piece met with upon the stage prompted him to wTite two more dramatic com- positions, which were announced by the names of " The Highland Widow' and " Margaret of Anjou." He finished, at the same period, " The Sojourner," a Poem of consi- derable length, in the Spenserian stanza but not being able to meet with a publisher, he commenced wTiting his • Lectures on Poetry," with " Biogi-aphical and Individual Sketches," which he completed in three manuscript volumes. These lectures he continued to deliver, with various success, in the principal towns of Scotland and England, till, about three j'ears ago, he rested from bis wanderings in his native village, among his friends and carlyassociates,in consequence of being invited to become editor of the Berwick Advertiser, a provincial newspaper. Here his employment was conge- nial to his taste. He threw his whole soul into his work, and lent his unwearied efforts to promote what he considered nis " country's weal." His spirit flashed with indignation at the thought-either of public or of private oppression, and he sought, with warmest zeal, to advance the interests of his native place. But, amid his labours as an editor, his spirit itill delighted to dwell in the fields of literature, and the matter of the journal was often diversified by his own poeti- cal and literary effusions. He published too, last summer, as most of the readers of the Border Tales will know, a Poem entitled " The Enthusiast " with other poetical pieces, and regarding which the public have pronoimced a favourable opinion. But that which wafted his fame throughout the length and breadth of his native land, as well as bore it to distant cUnx'.s, was his Border Talcs. It was from these, too, that be and his friends saw a prospect of a reward for his toils). Tluir circulation was beyond even his own most sanguine expectations, and the remuneration from them such as would soon have placed hira in independent circumstances. But the scene which was thus opening before him has been blighted — and from the high place which he had gained in the estiraation of his to^vnsraeu, from the caresses of Li? friends, and from the reproaches of his fees, he now lies where the " wicked cease from troubling, and where th? weary are at rest." This short narrative of the man who has often amused and thrilled the readers of the Border Tales, may affect nay, must affect, all who read it; but it will be laid aside, and he may be forgotten : but there are some from whose remembrance he will never fade, till they rest with him in the lonely chTirchyard. Death alone will dry up the tears which bedew a mother's and a widow's cheeks, or suppress the sigh of their wounded hearts. Fast, fast in the remcm • brance of those who " watched o'er his childhood," and those who surrounded with him the family hearth, has ht intrenched his name and his memory ; and in their behalf would we bespeak the sympathy of those who were edified by his stories or pleased with his fancy. But most of all do wc bespeak their sympathy in behalf of her who " shared his sorrows through many a changing year." He has left a widow respectable and respected ; and, from what we have said of his struggles through many a dark year, she is left to depend on the profits of his works for the comforts necessary for her, till she sink to rest with him in the grave. Nor are her prospects dark, if those who cheered him on in his literary labours still stand by her. His materials are not yet exhausted, and "tales }"et untold" are in reserve, to keep alive his memory, and to soothe, as far as earthlj- comforts can, her widowed heart. Already streams of sympathy flow in upon her, hearing offers of kindness; and under the man- agement of Mr James Wilson, her brother-in-law, and i\Ir .Sutherland, 12, Calton Street, Edinburgh, who is now publisher, we trust to see her reap the full reward of his genius and toils whose last hours she sweetened, and whose departing spirit she soothed, by the most unwearied atten- tion and affectionate kindness. W T L S U N'8 ?£>t!e(JortcaI, (TraUtttonavy, anto Imagmati'bf TALES OF THE BORDERS, COLDINGIIAM ABiiEY; on, THE DOUBLE REVEXGE. Most of our readers, we dare venture to say, have either heard or read of Coldingham Abbey ; but, for the enlif^hten- ment of such as may not, we may be permitted to add, that for several centuries it continuecl to bo one of the most famed and opuh-nt of the many religious huuscs witli wliich Scot- land was studded. There are hoary chroniclers who tell how, many long years ago, the Saxon Princess Ebba, sister of Osway, King of Northunibrla, was obliged to flee from the dangers with which her falher's kingdom was distracti-d — how she embarked in a boat which slie found lying at the mouth of the HumUer — and how her frail skiff, destitute of oar or rudder, bent its way over the turbulent billows, till it landed her in safety on a sandy beach on the coast of Ber- wickshire, a little eastward from where St Abb's, in giant greatness, now rears his venerable head above the waves. The same veritable authorities record how the priests who offi- ciated in a lonely temple, which, like the eyry of the eagle, was perched upon the summit of that stupendous cliff, looking forth upon the stormy ocean, descried with astonishment and awe the little boat bounding triumphantly over the billows which threatened every moment to engulph it in their watery abyss ; and how the princess, filled with gratitude to Him, *' Who iTjles the whirhviud and directs the storm," piously resolved to dedicate to His service the remainder of her life and f irtune, and thus became the foundress of Cold- ingham Abbev- Time \vould fail us were we to enumerate the enormities which were carried on by the inmates of this religious establishment after the death of the sainted Ebba ; nor shall we detain the reader by telling him how the Deitv, grievously incensed at the turpitude and extent of their delinquencies, commissioned a fleet of Scandinavian rovers to land upon the neiu'hbouring coast, and consume tlie monastery and its wicked inhabitants in one common confla- gration ; and how it lay in ruins for about two hundred years thereafter, a monument of Divine retribution. In the year 1098, King Edgar of Scotland caused a much more splendid edifice to be reared upon its foundations. According to worthy Andrew Winton's veracious " Chronykil" — " Coli^-ngham then founded he, And rychely g:\Tt it dowit be ; To Cuthbcit. Ebli, and Mary baith. This haly kirk he dedecate." Therein he planted a colony of Benedictine monks from Durham, whence, at various times thereafter, it continued ' to be supplied. These worthy ecclesiastics and their sue- I ce.ssors, at the same time that thev made spiritual affairs I their profession, were by no means deficient in their regard to what was considered to be of tantamount importance — 1 the levying of sufficient supplies for the due support of their 1 '50. Vol. I. iiiniiastery. In short, like the brethren of a neii^hbouring Border convent, the monks of Coldingham '* Made pudc kail On Fridays when they tasted ; Noi- wanted either beef or ale, As lang as their neijjhboura' lasted.* Unlike the graver churchmen of modern times, t}iey engaged eagerly in the sports of the chase- Starting forth from their cells by break of day, they pursued the startled deer from his covert in tlie woods which sheltered the beautiful valley of the Eye ; and, when the chase was over, planted in triumph his antlered head u\nm the festive board of the refectory. Then, crowding around it, they qualified their venison with liquor from goblets which mantled high with the pure and unadulterated juice of the grape; and concluded the business of the day amid the din of " wassail, rout, and revelry." Now, it happened about the middle of tlie fifteenth cen- tury, that there sprung up the powerful and warlike clan of the Homes, who soon became proprietors of manv estates adjacent to the abbev lands, and exercised the authority of more than Border barons over the persons and property of the greater part of the inhabitants of what were called the Eastern IMarches. They soon began to cast invidious eyes upon the rich possessions of the monks ; and, a favourable opportunity having at length occurred, they succeeded in getting one of their family installed into the lucrative office of Bailiff to the Priory. From that period thev began gradually to encroach upon the power of the other officials, and to appropriate the revenues to the furtherance of their own ambitious schemes ; so that the persons of the poor monks, once plump and rosy " with good capon lined," dwindled down to be the very ghosts of what they were, by reason of the scanty manner in whicli their larder was sup- lied. About the year of grace 1487, the king formed the design of applying the revenues to the support of a splendid chapel-royal which he had recently erected at Stirling — a proposal which, if it had been carried into effect, would have for ever blasted the selfish views of the usurping Homes- They. however, resolved not to be so easily forced to relin- quisli that which they had been in the habit of considering as their own ; and, forthwith rallying their vassals around them, and contemptuously unfurling their banners upon the battlements of Fast Castle, Wedderburn, and Dunglass, they impetuously rushed into that rebellion which cost the king his life. His gallant son, James the Fourth, though certainly indebted to them for his premature elevation to the throne, when calmly seated there, and left to meditate at leisure upon the odious means by which he had attained it, cherished such an inveterate hatred against them, that, while he lived, he would not allow a single member of the family to hold office within the abbey. The fall of Prior Stuart at Flodden, by the side of his ill-fated father, the king, created a vacancy, however, which the Homes, at all hazards, re- solved upon filling up, by installing their kinsman, David Home, a voun rei brother of their chieftain, into the Prior- 3i)4 TALES OF THE BORDERS, Blijp. The Regent Albany sought in vain an excuse for subjecting him to the same bloody fate as his two brothers had experienced soon after his accession to office ; though he gave large bribes to Hepburn, the chieftain of riailes, and others, with whom he knew him to be at enmity, to find out some way of privately assassinating him. This horrid crime they found it by no means so easy to accom- plish. The Prior, aware of Albany's machinations ag-ainst Lim, seldom ventured abroad beyond the precincts of the monastery, and then only when attended by a numerous escort of armed Borderers. His time was, for the most part, devoted to the study of the sciences of astrology and necro- mancy — if, indeed, we may be allowed to dignify with the name of science, systems which were based in ignorance and superstition. It chanced one day, about the middle of March 1518, that the Prior, having had occasion to make a short excur- sion from the monastery, was returning homeward with his escort over a moor that lay to the westward of the Priory, when their attention was attracted by the body of a man, lying stretched on his back upon the heath. He appeared to be perfectly insensible, and only replied to the questions which were put to him by uttering frequent and deep groans. He seemed to be about the middle age, and was dressed in the garb of a mendicant, though there was some- thing in his general appearance that seemed to indicate that he had not been long, at least, reduced to the necessity of following that abject calling. " ftlanderston," said the Prior, addressing one of the most athletic of the horsemen, who had dismounted to inspect the body of the mendicant, " do you see to get the poor wretch placed upon a litter, and conveyed with as much ease as may be to the Priory, whither some of us shall ride on before, and instruct Father Benedict to get such medica- ments prepared as he may deem most meet for his restora- tion." Having given these instructions, the Prior clapt spurs to his steed, and speedUy arrived with a few of his retinue in the courtyard of the Abbey. He was just on the point of entering into the cloisters, when he felt himself suddenly puUed by the skirt of his riding cloak. On turning round, he discovered standing behind him an old man, who usually formed part of his escort, the rueful aspect of whose counte- nance made him look like one who knew himself to be the bearer of tidings which he considered might be far from agreeable. " What aileth you now, Lumsdean i*" said the Prior, scarcely able to repress a smile at the tragi-comic expression of the veteran's features ; " you look liker a man who has made up his mind to go to the gibbet, than a bluff, fear- nought Borderer, as you have heretofore proved yourself." " Pardon me, my Lord Prior," replied the other ; ' but I like not thy bringing hither yonder stranger for a guest. I doubt much, if mine eyes deceive me not, that he is some- thing mair than a gaberlunzie, albeit he weareth the dress o' ane ; and that, I dree, 'ill be ower sune kend, to the sorrow of mony, gin you'll no let me gang immediately to gie directions that he is no to be brought within these walls." " Why, Lumsdean," rejoined the other, " you seem to have become dotard, old fool ; your language is shrouded in greater mystery than are the writings of many of my old necromantic authors ; and Heaven knows many of them are sufficieatly obscure. Explain yourself quickly, and detain me not ; otherwise his life, be he mendicant or merely bab- bler, like yourself, will be lost for want of timcous assist- ance." " Call me dotard, or babbler, or worse, an thou list, my Uege; but I may not forbear to warn thee against him. 'i'finu kiiotU'BSt Jaraos Uppbiim, the chieftain of llailes, and ivbat tliou hast to expoi'tt fJinuld. thou >ind he happen to for- gather; for he hath vowed that Scotland shall not long baud you baith till he be revenged upon thee- Under the gaber- lunzie garb, thou didst behold that chieftain. I once saw him, in cold blood, stab one of his ain henchmen ; and, since that time, his appearance hath been rivetted upon my mind." " Get you to your dormitory, old fool, and try what effect a little sleep may lend you in quieting your diseased ima- ginings," interrupted the Prior, impatiently, and immedi- ately disappeared through a small Saxon archway that led into the cloisters. lie soon introduced himself into a small apaitment, little more than six feet square, dingily lighted by a small circular aperture in the roof. In it sat Father Benedict, at a table covered with old musty parchments, and huge, moth-eaten volumes closed with iron clasps. Though he did not exceed forty-five years of age, his bald head truly indicated that those hours which the other members of the fraternity devoted to recreation and slumber, were by him spent in study and nocturnal vigils. Underneath a set of bushy grey eyebrows gleamed two dark, penetrating eyes, betokening the superior share of intellectual acuteness which their owner possessed. His craft, and insinuating mannera, had often proved efficient to the Homes in quelling the dis- sensions which not unfrequently broke out among the monks during that turbulent age. He arose from his seat and made the customary obeisance as the Prior entered ; and, on being apprised of the object of his visit, he proceeded, with great complaisance, to remove from an oaken chest various bottles, containing liquors of different colours, the names and virtues of which he explained to the Prior as he set them carefully down upon the table. At length, he produced one consider- ably larger than the others, and, holding it up with great satisfaction before the Prior's face — " This containeth," said he, " one of the best elixirs in my pharmacopia. 'Tis the discovery of Henry de Gre- tham, a brother monk of Durham, who happening, some years bygone, to be sent hither on secular business, imparted unto me the valued secret of its composition. It is by far the best of my medicaments — the Elixir Elixorum, as I might call it. When Abbot Forman presided in this house, it never failed to bring him forth out of those fits of stupor whereunto he oftentimes fell towards nightfall ; and I doubt not but it will prove equally efficacious unto the varlet whom thou foundest lying senseless upon the moor." While he spoke, a noise was heard at the entrance to the cloisters. It was speedily followed by a knocking at the door of Benedict's apartment, from the exterior of which an announcement was made that the sick man had been de- posited in the hospital * Thither Father Benedict now hastened, with all due despatch, to exercise his Esculapiar skill, not forgetting to carry with him his favourite sanatory elixir. Nor did the result shew that his estimation of its virtues had been over-highly rated ; for, ere the vesper bell had rung, his patient had so far recovered as to be able to complain of a sense of suffijcation, which led him to re- quest that the casement of the A\indow might be thrown j open, to admit the fresh air. From that time, he rallied so I fast that the monk, deeming it unnecessary to attend upon him longer, locked the door, and left liim to compose him- self for the night. On leaving the apartment of Father Benedict, the prior proceeded through the gardens of the monastery, towards a private door, by which he was in the habit of gaining access to the apartment in which he prosecuted his singular studies ; but, finding that the key was amissing, he was forced to retrace his steps, and enter by the principal door, • There was an hospital or infirm.iry attached to almost the whole of the monasteries, the superintendence of which was entrusted to one of the monks. The Abbey of Coldingh.im had two : one of which stood within its precincts, adjoining to the cloisters—the other, being a few miles westward, at Auldcambus, was derated exclusively to the recef- tion of lepers. COLDINGHAM ABBEY. VOL I. P. 303. TALKS OF THE BORDERS. 395 which opened upon tlie conrt-viird. His flambeau being liglited, he sat liiinself down in liis vaulted cliamber, tl;e w alls of which were lined with shelves of books antl ancient portraits of eminent ecclesiastics and warriors. Immcdi- jitely opposite to him hung two paintings, of much more modern date — the likenesses of his two unfortunate brothers, whom the miscreant Albany had brought to the block on tlie Kith of October of the pieccding ye.ir. Suddenly looking upwards, his e}-e fell upon those fiail relics, which were now the sole memorials of his beloved kindred ; and his heart beat quick, and tlie tear darted to his eye, as he figured to himself those once smiling countenances, now fixed, with the heads of traitors, upon the battlements of Edinburgh. He reflected, too, that the same sanguinary measures would be doled out to himself, should a fitting opportunity occur of inveigling liim into their snares ; and then, for the first time, did he bestow a serious thought upon the warning of the stranger invalid, and almost re- pented of having allowed him to be brought so near him. Still he did not see, for the present, how any evil could jccrue to him from one apparently so much indisposed. lie resolved, however, to have him dismissed from the monastery as soon as he should appear to have recovered sufticient strength to admit of his being removed. He con- tinued to revolve these matters over in his mind till the gloomy hour of midnight approached. Before retiring to his couch he thought of trying that celebrated experiment in the occult sciences, by which it was deemed possible to determine the exact duration of an individual's life ; and he resolved that liis o;^'n should be the subject of the experi- ment. He accordingly proceeded to arrange upon the table B variety of glasses and instruments considered necessary to its successful performance, and to describe numerous large circles upon some sheets of parchment that were spread out before him. Having concluded these preparatory arrangements, he passed his hand across his brow, and said aloud to him- self— " I shall now see how many years have yet to revolve ere this head of mine shall be gathered together with those of my loved relatives, who have gone before me." " Thou mayst e'en spare thyself that trouble, my Lord Prior," exclaimed a voice from behind him ; " all thy years have already revolved, and few, indeed, are the sand-grains in thy glass that have yet to run out. Knowing this, I deemed it meet to come and thank thee for the service thou hast shewn me during the term of thy brief existence." Ere these words had been repeated, the Prior had started to the middle of the floor, and found them to proceed from the mendicant, who had got admittance by the private door, the key of which he had lost, and upon whose face played a smile of the most diabolical import. On recovering some- •what from the surprise into -ivbich so unexpected a visiter had thrown him, the Prior thus broke forth : — " How, knave, durst you venture to intrude yourself thus stealthily into my private apartment, and at such an hour ?" and, at the same time, he hurried to the spot where the man stood, in search of his rapier. The latter now burst out into a fiendish laugh, and throwing aside his cloak, and tossing oflP the mendicant's cowl, with which his face had previously been in a great measure concealed, he instantly discovered himself to be Hepburn, the chieftain of Hailes, from whom the Prior had so much to dread. " What seekest thou, my Lord Prior ?" said he, " per- chance thy rapier ? — here it is — I found it lying by thy side, and a goodly piece of workmanship I warrant it to be. I shall restore it to thee presently ; but, first, pray let me ask thee if thoa knowest one James Hepburn, who, but for thee, \^i)uld now have held the Priorate of this Abbey, and whom thy traitor-brother. Lord Home, did so much to injure ?" "Too well I've known you, base villain." replied the Prior; "and had my brother lived, you would, ere thi.-^ have been made to pay the penalty of your crimes. My kinsman, David of Wedderburn, may yet let thee feci what it is to insult a Home " * "Then let me tell thee. Home," said Hepburn, brandish- ing the rapier, and his eyes sparkling with the fury of a demon, " I've sought thee long, by night and by day, in the wilderness and in the city ; but could nowhere find thee out, to wreak my vengeance on thy head. I have, however, in the garb of a mendicant feigning sickness, gained access to thee, and now receive back thy ra])ier ;" so saying, he plunged the weapon into the heart of the Prior, who instantly reeled backward and ex])ired with a deep groan. The tidings of this deplorable event soon spread far and wide over the country ; but the assassin remained undis- covered, nor was it known for some time afterwards wlio was the perpetrator of the horrid deed. The ruflian, Hepburn, returned to court, where the Regent readily agreed to ap- point his kinsman, Robert Blackadder, to the vacant Prior- ship ; and, accordingly, the Archbishop of St Andrew's, within whose diocese the Abbey stood, appointed the fifth day of October following for the performance of the cere- mony of instalment. No sooner was it known that the office had been conferred upon their kinsman, than the Blackadders of the Merse, the Hepburns, and their other allies, were conducted to Edinburgh by their respective chieftains, to pay their obeisance to the new Prior, and escort him thence to the Priory over which he was called to preside. In the present instance, the ceremony was expected to be one of the most splendid and imposing that had ever been performed within the hallowed walls of Coldingham. No expense was to be spared, it being the first time that a Blackadder had reached the dignified office of Prior. For several weeks preceding the entrance of young Blackadder into his new domains, the good people of Coldingham were all busily engaged in making preparations for the ceremony.. Almost every individual in that then far from inconsiderable township found business moving on more briskly than usual in consequence of the anticipated ceremony. Watty Geddes, the tailor, found trade increase so fast upon his hands — being employed to fit out the monks \vith a new assortment of cowls and scapulars — that he required to enlist into his ser- vices, pro tempore — that is to say, till the completion of the cowl and scapular job — some five or six knights of the needle from the neighbouring villages of Auldcambus, Eyemouth, and Aucheneraw. And, while the ^vrights, blacksmiths, and other artisans, were busily occupied in making repairs upon the monastery itself, it was with no small exultation that i\Iistress Grizzel Turnpenny was enabled, one evening, to declare to a " weel-stowed roomfu'" of her neighbours, whom the briskness of trade had induced to squander an extra- ordinary merk or two upon her liquor, that her fingers were " clean blistered wi' turnin' the spiggot." Scarce a week had elapsed after the murder of the Prior when Father Benedict, the monk to whom we have already introduced our readers, stole forth from his cell, about mid- night, to the stables, where, saddling a pony, he led it softly to the court-gate of the Abbey. It was, of course, at that time, shut, which prevented ingress or egress to a horseman, though foot passengers could at all times gain admittance into the Abbey yards by what was called the Kirk- style. " Who goes there, and what do'st want?" bawled out Robin Steinson, the porter, who was aroused from his slumbers by a few smart applications of the Father's statF to the door of his lodge. " I am Father Benedict, who hath been sent for to minis- ter the last oflices of the church unto a dying layman : I pray 1 • The code of ecclesiastical laws interfered to prevent a churchmar, ' avenging, with the sword, any insult otfered to him. The redress of tb^ injury was usually left to one of his nearest kinsman S96 TALES OF THE BORDERS. thee, Robin, arouse thyself quickly, otherwise the poor fellow will be let die in'his sins, and thou be niade respon- sible." , , . -11 1 Hereupon the drowsy porter, whose brain was still reel- in" from the effects of the preceding evening's potation in Lucky Turnpenny's, arose from his couch and opened the gate ; for which service he received the monk's blessing, under the comforting influence of which he once more rolled his drunken carcase under the bedclothes. The monk, however, went to visit no dying layman, as he had told the porter, but upon quite a different errand. Ere two hours had elapsed, he found himself in front of the proud tuwers of Wedderburn Castle. As he approached, the moon shone out and displayed to him the figures of the sentinels moving to and fro upon the summits of its battle- ments. It was a noble pile, and one of the strongest upon the Borders, though it owed its strength more to the assist- ance of art than of nature. A deep moat, forty feet wide, swept round a septangular wall, fortified with numerous turrets, far above the tops of which fluttered in the moon- beam the banner of its rebellious lord.* After some altercation with the warders, and undergoing a strict scrutiny, the drawbridge was let down, and Father Benedict admitted into the court-yard. Here he was left to his meditations for some time, till a servant appeared and conducted him into the chieftain's presence. He was sit- ting by the window in an apartment at the top of the tower, brooding over the melancholy fate which had lately befallen BO many of his kinsmen, and revolving how he could most amply revenge it, when the monk entered. His feelings were those of the bitterest chagrin when he heard of the sumptuous arrangements in progress for the inauguration of his kinsman's successor. His pride, too, was mortally hurt when he thought of the joy which prevailed among the in- habitants of Coldingham, who, at any rate, had been no sufferers during the rule of his family — though, perhaps, their rejoicing was rather produced by the supposed advan- tage that would result from the present increase of trade than from any pleasure felt at the downfall of their old superiors. In this gloomy mood, he had passed the preced- ing part of the night, and had resolved — and when did a Home resolve in vain? — that Blackadder should fall by his sword. " Knight of Wedderburn," said the monk, " hath the spirit of the Homes perished with those whom the proud foreigner and his minion have slain .'' Is there no one still left to tell him that Scotland may not be turned into a slaughter-house for thy race ? Two days more and Black- adder, thine enemy, will be Prior of Coldingham." " And in two days more his head shall be reared upon the highest pinnacle of its towers," interrupted the ruthless knight ; " ay, and turned towards the west, too, that when the Regent shall come to visit him, his minion may not be the last to greet him !" The day fi.Kcd for the instalment at length arrived. All the eminences, for many miles around, were occupied by groups of people from the surrounding district, who flocked eagerly together to catch a view of the splendid cavalcade, as it passed on its route to Coldingham. The sun shone out brightly — the birds carolled forth their sweetest notes — and the \^'hole aspect of nature accorded with the joyous state of the spectators' minds. It was a holiday sight u'hich few living had ever before seen. Most of tlte later priors had intruded themselves into the monastery by force, and, consequently had readily dispensed with the ceremony of formal installation. About midday, the sound of the bag- pipe and tambour, now and then broken in upon by the martial blasts of the bugle, announced to the anxious mul- * Sir DaTld Home, the knight of Wedderburn, was outl.iwod for the der of the warden Do la Beaute, the subject of a forii:cr Tale. titude that the procession was approaching nearer iirid nearer. With one accord they all rose from their seats upon the heath, and vied with each other who should catch the first glimpse of the approaching cavalcade. At length it came so near as to be distinctly visible to all, and was greeted with loud and long-continued cheering. First of all was a four-wheeled vehicle, covered with Tuscan cloth, and decorated with rich figures of the saints, wrought in gold and silver, and drawn by four milk-white steeds, finely harnessed. In it were two monks, clad in loose white robes, kneeling at the foot of an arbor v'itcB crucifix, to which was affixed an illuminated figure of the Saviour. Behind followed eighty black-clad monks of the order of St Benedict, each holding in his hand an ivory crucifix. Then came a superbly mounted cavalcade, consisting of upwards of five hundred horse, in front of which rode the celebrated Abbot Forman, Archbishop of St Andrew's; the afiicial of Lothian ; the Dean of the Jlerse ; and the new Prior — all of their horses adorned with a costly cloth of crimson, the corners of which were sujjported by four pages who strutted by the side of each. The greater part of the horsemen were well armed, as a precautionary measure against any inteiTuption from the Homes, whose strongholds of Fast Castle and Dunglass were but little removed from the tract which they had to pursue. A few days antecedent to the celebration of the ceremony, the grand aisle of the church was splendidly decorated with figures of the saints, around whose necks were entwined long and showy wreaths of flowers ; and instead of some an- tiquated full-length portraits of the Homes who had held office ill that fane, were substituted those of some of the priors of older date, which, for more than a century, had been laid aside in an obscure corner of the building. On the portals being thrown open for the entry of the procession, the latter were found to have been removed — the portrait- ures of the more recent priors to have been replaced — the wreaths stripped from the bodies of the images — and the whole interior of the church restored nearly to its usuiil con- dition. This disarrangement, however, which afterwards proved fatal to the individual to whom the keys of the sanc- tuary had been assigned, was insufficient to prevent the com- mencement of the ceremony. After the celebration of mass, at the high altar, by the Archbishop of St Andrew's, the usual oaths were administered to, and papers signed by the new dignitary, in presence of the whole assembly. Nothing oc- curred to break in upon the order of the ritual, till that part of it intervened, wherein it was declared by the bailie or sub- prior that the election had taken place without one dis- senting voice. At that instant, a harsh-toned voice replied, from the upper part of the building — -" A Home objects, and a Home still lives to punish ;" and, on looking upward in thf direction whence this ominous declaration seemed to proceed, the reflected shadow of a man in armour was seen emerging from behind one of the fluted buttresses. The astonished bailie stood aghast — the parchment dropped from his hand upon the pavement, while a tremulous " Save us, Holv Cuthbert !" escaped from his lips. The rest of the cons^e- gation remained for a minute in mute astonishment. At length, silence was broken by Hepburn of Hailes demanding, in a stern voice, who he was that dared thus arrogantly to interrupt the ceremony ; at the same time ordering the gates to be locked, and the whole monastery searched for the apprehension of the intruder. Encouraged by his example, a hundred subordin;:tes were quickly set in motion — every corner of the building scoured for the apprehension of the intruder ; but no traces of the mysterious visitant were apparent, if we except th? Inpressions of recent foot- steps, visible in the garden surrounding the monastery, and traceable from the lx)tto;n of a winding stair that communi- cated with the upper part of the building by a neglected postern. After tliis fruitless search, the parties returned to TALES OF THE BORDERS. 307 the cnurcli, atin tne remainder of tlie ceremony was gone tlirongh ; but the spirits of uU present hud received such u " damper" as resisted tlie effects of several Hagons of Jlistress Turnpenny's best liquor, which was afterwards dispensed free to all (and they were not few) who chose to partake of the new Prior's bounty- Various were the con- jectures thrown out by the populace as to the manner in wliicli a Priorship so inaus|)iciously begun would terminate. On the following morning, the Prior, accompanied by a part of the retinue which had attended at the installation, in accordance with the usual custom, proceeded on a diet of visitation to the various cells and chapelries within his jurisdiction. Having visited the cell at Ayton, the caval- cade advanced toward Lamberton, the eastern boundary of the diocese. On visitations of such a nature, it was cus- tonuiry for all whom they met upon their way to retire to a little distance from the road, and to remain uncovered till the company who formed the procession passed by. The latter had oidy traversed about half of the ground between the places just mentioned, when a troop of armed horsemen appeared advancing toward them across the moor. Instead, however, of observing the general practice of falling off to the left, they continued advancing onward in the middle of the road. Perceiving the inclination thus manifested to neglect this point of etiquette, one of the horsemen con- nected with the cavalcade, galloped up to the daring and irreverent equestrians, to expostulate with them on the impropriety of non-conijiliance therewith. His exhortations were, however, utterly disregarded ; and, on using certain language deemed insulting by the party, a scuffle ensued, and shortly terminated in the overthrow of the unfortunate mediator. In the meantime, the monastic assemblage looked not on with indifference. The armed escort now aban- doned their position in the rear, and planted themselves in a dense body in the middle of the path, determined to avenge the insult thus offered to clerical dignity. The monks, at the same time, retired to an eminence a little removed from the road to await the result of the combat. Nor did the recusant horsemen seem to have expected a submissive tole- ration of the affront ; for no sooner had they vented their rage upon the person of the unfortunate wight who had dared to dictate to them, then they formed themselves into fighting array, and continued their progress till they arrived within a few yards of the insulted I'rior and his escort. No- thing in the shape of parley was for a moment attempted. It was obvious, from the firm and determined posture into which both parties had thrown themselves, that notliing less than the blood of his antagonist would satisfy the rancour that burned within the breast of each. The result of the skirmish was long doubtful. At the very commencement, two individuals joined together in single combat ; and, fur some time, continued to parry each other's blows with the greatest success- At length, the elder of the two received Buch a severe stroke from his antagonist upon his sword- arm, that it fell powerless by his side, and his weapon drop- ped upon the heath. His adversary immediately sprung upon him like a tiger upon his prey, grappled him by the throat, hurled him to the ground, and planted his knee firmly upon his breast- Then, drawing out from his belt a silver-hilted dagger, and pointing it to the heart of his vic- tim, he exclaimed — " I la, knave! didst thou think that a Home no longer lived to revenge the murder of his kinsman .'' Thjii shalt now die for it !" At the same time, he plunged the weapon up to the hilt in the heart of his prostrate adversary. Scarcely had he done so, when a youth, dressed in an eccle- siastic robe, sprung forward, apparently for the purpose of arresting the fate of the fallen man ; but he came too late. In his eagerness to intercept the fatal blow, he stumbled, and instantly shared the fate of him whom he had come to save. Need it be af!ded thrd the ir>divi(iua. who achieveil thc*« sanguiniiry deeds was David Home, the knight of Wedder- l)urn, and that his victims were Hej)burn the chieftain, and IJIackaton Hall — formerly the residence of the unfortunate James, Earl of Djrwentwater, who, in 1716, was beheaded for abetting the Earl of Mar in his vain attempt at rein- stating the Stuarts upon the throne. These venerable re- mains occupied the summit of a steep and beautifully wooded bank, which overhangs the romantic rivulet, or rather brook, of Devil's Water, near its confluence with the Tyne. The sky, which, during the earlier part of the day, had been clear and serene, became suddenly now overcast with dark clouds, which forthwith began to discharge themselves in a heavy shower. To escape a "ducking," I found myself compelled to seek shelter in the interior of a gloomy vault, a few yards distant from the ruins, which had been used as a burial place by the ancient Barons of Dilstun Hall, but, as I ascer- tained from the marks upon its pavement, had been latterly converted into the ignoble purposeof a penforsheep. Scarcely had I entered, when the storm burst forth furiously, and, in a few minutes, the brook, which laved the base of the rock on which the vault stood, came brawling down with the noise and vehemence of a torrent. No alternative was thus left me, but to amuse myself, as best I might, in at- tempting to decipher a fe-v of the time-worn monumental tablets that were imbedded in the walls of this sombre mansion of the dead. I had spent some time in tracing the scarcely legible characters that told of the deeds and achievements of the ancient barons of Dilston, whose mouldering ashes crumbled beneath my feet, and was pro- ceeding to transfer to a scrap of paper the inscription upon the most recent of these monuments, erected by Anne, Countess of Derwentwater, to the memory of her brave but unfortunate son, when the vault became sud- denly darkened. On turning round to ascertain the ciuse of this, I found it to be occasioned by an old shepherd, who stood at its entrance, apparently a good deal ;.stonished at (indin" me seated in such a situation. I soon entered into conversation with him, and discovered him to be not only intelligent, but likewise disposed to be very comr.iunicative. lie told me that he was a native of Scotland ; but, for several years past, had been employed in the capacity of shepherd to a farmer in that neighbouriiood The family ol Derwentwater became the subject of conversation ; and hav- ing talked of the fate of the last of its earls, I was led tc speak of the subsequent insurrection of 1745, which had fo» %)U TALES OF THE BORDERS. ever blastea the hopes «rt the Tluuse of Stuart. Talking of tlie battle of Preston, which, for a time, had inspired the adhe- rents of the Chevalier with e.xpectations of success, the old man's face brightened up, and, with considerable pride, he told me that his father had been one of those who fell fighting in the " gude cause" on that bloody field. " Had you time. Sir," said he, " I could tell you something about that business that, aiblins, you mayna ha'e heard afore ; but it's a lang story, and, I doubt, no jist a proper ane to be tauld in siccan a eerie place as this. An' you're no feared for a wet coat, you might e'en stap doivn the burn to my beild, that's no muckJe mair than a stanestliraw frae this, an' there you shall be made welcome to rest yoursel' till sic time as the storm blaw by ; and I, the meantime, wad be tellin' you the story o' my faither and the Laird o' Glen- gorroch.' A minute's walk, or rather run, brought us to the shepherd's hut, and another had scarcely time to slide by before I was seated, hob-a-nob, with Dugald Glen, (for that Was the name of my new acquaintance,) before a blaz- ing fire, listening to a narration of the marvellous incidents, which, on my return home, I embodied in the following story, which is now submitted to the readers of the Border Tales. It was on a fine stiU evening in the autumn of 1745, that the clansmen of Glengorroch, with their aged chieftain at their head, marched from the Highland glen of that name, to share the fortunes of Prince Charles Edward, who had reared his standard on the heath of Glenfinnan. Their wives and children were collected in groups on the sides of the Gorroch mountain, in order to enjoy as long a view as pos- sible of the " tartaned warriors." The anxious, though somewhat proud interest, with which they gazed on their departing forms, deepened in proportion as the distance between them was magnified ; and when, at length, an abrupt winding of the glen carried their kinsmen, one by one, from their sight, a simultaneous shriek, or rather yell, burst from the female multitude. Then, having gazed for some time on the particular object of their love or aifection, they hastily pressed their weeping children to their bosoms, and slowly began to move down the acclivity of the mountain to their hamlet in the vale below, to muse in silence on the strange enterprise that was taking their relatives " awa frae the land o' the mountain and heather;" while Lady Helen, the daughter of their chieftain, returned in sorrow to the old castle or tower of Glengorroch, which reared its high and somewhat dilapidated turrets on the summit of a precipitous cliff that projected from the northern side of the mountain. With the proceedings of Prince Charles, after his being joined by the Glengorroch and othsr disaffected clans, our readers are too well acquainted to require any farther infor- mation from us. They will recollect that, on the evening prior to the battle of Preston, the royal army, under the command of Sir John Cope, lay encamped on that wide and then barren plain which extends between the village of Tranent and the sea ; whereas the insurgent forces occupied the geutle slope of a hill a little to the northward of that village — an extensive and intricate morass, which has now disappeared under the improvements of modern agriculture, stretching between them. Thus were the rival armies situ- ated on. the wet and foggy night of the 20th September 1745, awaiting the approach of the dawn to commence the onset. The hardy mountaineer, accustomed to deeds of slaughter and bloodshed, lay wrapt in his tartan plaid on the oare ground, in profound repose ; while many a less courage- ous Lowlander, wLo had either joined in the enterprise in a fit of enthusiasm, or from a spirit of retaliation engendered by wrongs received from those in authority, heard the cry of the sentinels as they changed guard, and viewed th. watch-fires blazing on the plain with feelings of a far from pleasing kind. On that night, is the chieftain of Glen;;ortur,} s.-.t in bis ijvi. irtrr lii-. urniner i):Scers liad retired to their siumberi, aieditaling on the probaMe issue of the morrow's engage- i ment, there entered tlie form of an aged Highlander, accoutred in a full suit of armour ; but his body was bowed down with the load of rears, and the sword vvhich hung r.nslieiithed by his side was reddened with gore, that flowed in a dark purple stream from a wound in his side. His face was unearthly pale, the features being contracted into a con- vulsive grin, rather, however, betokening a feeling of acute ppin than of displeasure- The spectre (for such it was) gl.'ded toward the spot where the chieftain was sitting, and then fixing his lustreless eyes upon him, he pronounced, in a solemn sepulchral tone — " Glengorroch, prejiare ; for thy hour is coming ! Ere the morrow's sun hath set, the last chieftain of Glengorroch shall be no more !" And, as the voice died away, the figure became gradually more and mora indistinct, till, at length, it almost disappeared. At first, the chieftain had tried to speak, and ask the officer, whom he then conceived the apparition to be, the cause of so unex- pected a visit, when suddenly the idea of his being in the presence of Dhorach nan Dhu, the mysterious being who was supposed to preside over the destinies of his race, flashed upon his mind, and rendered every effort to speak for some time abortive, though his mind remained little more affect- ed than might be attributed to surprise at so strange a sight- During the vision, he sat boldly gazing on the spectre, and instead of appearing alarmed or daunted at the appalling an- nunciation, a smile of sadness played upon his aged features ; and, on regaining his speech, just as the apparition was glid- ing out of sight, he calmly exclaimed — " Spectre ' phantom ! or whoever thou art, who hast thus kindly come to warn me of my approaching doom, depart not, I pray thee, till thou hast likewise foretold to me what shall be the destiny of the heiress of our house, that, when the fatal blow shall fall on his head, Glengorroch may die in peace-" While he spoke, the spectre entirely vanished ; but, at the further end of the apartment, the form of a lady, in tears and in deep mourning, was seen approaching a gloomy convent, at the portal of which stood a train of nuns attired in the unostentatious garb of the sisterhood. As the figure of the lady entered the convent, the tent resounded with the solemn tones of the organ, which ceased on the novice and the nuns disappearing, and the gates being closed. Glengorroch sat for some time with his eyes rivetted to the spot where the vision had melted away, engaged in deep thought. At length he gave utterance to the painful emotions which ovar- came him at t'ne latter apparition. " And is it even so? — are thus all my high fancies to be blasted for ever ? — and is it to fare thus hard with the last remnant of Glengorroch ? Alas ! my poor child ! how are all thy father's proud hopes and wishes for thy happiness in a moment departed, and the heart, which could have smiled upon its own misfortunes, made to weep tears of blood for thine !" During the remainder of the night, he continued to pace backward and forward, his mind engrossed with the most melancholy reflections. The dawn at length began to break, and they were interrupted by the entrance of his old and faithful domestic, Dugald Glen, a Lowlander by birth, but whose long servitude had caused him to be considered by his master rather jr the light of a confidant than as an ordi- nary serving-man. He entered the tent with a smile on Lis countenance, which 6ecame suddenly dispelled as he observed that of his master overcast with a look of unusual sadness. Without paying much attention to tiie old man, who had now intruded himself into his presence, Glengorricn j.y,[. tinued his perambulations, engaged in the snme gloon.y re- verie as previous to Dugald's appearance B7 this time daylight had advanced so far as to render nie torch, whicU" continued to Maze ou the floor of the apartment, altogether''" TALES OF THE BORDERS. S99 stiporfltKius. Tliis (Hiickly attracted Dujiiltl's liutice, who remarked, as heextin^uislifd tin.' bl;iziiig f:igj;<)t, that it was •neither mair nor less than siimiii' ane's mercies to use liaitli day an' torch ligiit at the same time ;" ami tiiis lie did in a louder tone than usual, cliielly with a view of rousing his master from his reveries, that he might ascertain what had given rise to the painful reflections, which, from long experi- ence of his habits, he readily saw were passing in the chief- tain's mind. The latter, at the loud exclamation of Dugald, turned hastily round, and, speedily assuming his wonted smile, said to the venerable valet — " So, l^ugald, you are quickly afoot ; you, for one, seem determined not to be back- ward in the light. How goes the time, Dugald.' — is the Prince astart yet .-' — and how are our Knglish friends looking this morning I" " Please your honour," replied Dugald, bowing respect- fully, " the sun is just beginning to keek out frae the clouds ower Berwick Law ; an' as for the Prince, he's been rinnin' frae ae tent to anither this half hour, an", 1 doubt not, will be wi' your Grace i' the crack o' a nut shell ; an' when I came ben, the Southrons were putting out their tires, and seemed to be in an unco tlurry. But, i'the name o' the Holy Virgin, what's maliin' you look sae pale an' fearsome ? 1 declare vour cheeks are as white as a snaw-ba , or a sliced turnip ; It canna be that your honour's fear'd for the day's wark ; but, aiblins, you may find yoursel' ower weak to fight at your time o' life, an' nae wonder .''" " Fear hath ever been a stranger to the heart of our race, Dugald," rejoined the chieftain, reassuming the thoughtful look which had been dispersed by the appearance of his attendant ; •' and at no period during my long life did I feel myself more able or willing to wield my sword manfully, than to-day. But, if my face be, as you say, paler than usual, it is owing neither to fear nor weakness ; other and weightier causes are required to drive the colour from my tace ; and, alas ! these have been stnt enough to curdle every drop of blood in my veins ; but tlion knowest them not, Dugald, and it is better thou shonldst not, for thine old eyes will mayhap have closed in death ere the last ev-ent come to pass." " By the Holy St Peter !" said the old man, with a look of the most serious alarm, " am I to believe my ears, or has your honour been dreamiu' ? jMy dear maister, if you care ae straw for your puir servant, tell him what it is that's makin' you speak in that fashion. Before I left you last iright, you were in the greatest spirits, an' now you're lookin' as white as a corp, an' talkin' in that fearsome manner jnst when you're on the point o' being restored to a' your ancient honours and dignities. O my dear maister, tell me if ony danger is like to happen thee or thine, an" auld Dugald Glen 11 no grudge the best drap o' bluid in his body to keep you frae skaith." And here the tears ran down the old man's face as he fell to the ground and grasped his mas- ter's knees. " Poor old man !" said the chieftain, a tear, at the same time ghstening in his eyes, " last night I thought as thou dost even now, that honour and power were abcmt once more to smile on our ill-starred house ; but the fates have otherwise determined. However, my kind old man, enough hath been left from the wreck to enable thee to spend the remainder of thy days in peace and comfort ; take this, Dugald" — holding out ti the old man his purse, at which, however, he gazed with' at offering to accept it — " this is all 1 will be able to leave thee for thy long and faithful services ; but 1 will speak to the Prince in thy behalf, and he, I doubt not, will not see our old servant want ; one Ifiiitg," added Glengorroch, hurriedly, " orir' iking let me beseech thee to do, in the event of evil betiding thy master — give this ring to Helen, as a memorial from her father." " My honoured maister !" exclaimed the poor old man, after a j'reat many inclfHctual elforts to; leak, and iu a voice quivering with emotion. " waes me. that my auld een shoula liae seen this dav I — auld Dugald Glen siiould liae been lang syne lyin' wi' his forbears in Auchternnichty kirkyard. O my puir maister ! But what did the bogle say was to Lefa Leddy Helen.?" " .Vsk me not further, Dugald ; what I have alluded to has been foretold for the last time by tlie being who pre- sides over the destinies of our race. Take the money, Dugald ; you will lind it useful when you are once more obliged to shift for yourself; and keep this for Helen." " O my puir maister ! an' is it so you think my affections are to be got and broken off? Do you think that auld Dugald Glen can live after his first and only mai.iter has perished .'' — No, no, my Lord ; the same hour tliat shall terminate the race of Glengorroch shall lay auld Dugald i' the dust. J needna, therefore, the money, my Lord, an' the ring you maan consign to other hands to gi' puir Leddy Helen. O my i)uir maister ! waes me 1 should hae lived to sec this day !" " Thou art wrong," said Glengorroch, struggling to con- ceal his emotion, " thou art wrong, my kind old man ; thou niayest yet live to see many a happy day, and it were folly in thee to betake thyself to the field, resolved to share the fate of thy unhappy master, particularly when thou couldst be so well emjiloyed in conveying to poor Helen this last token of her father's love." Any further controversy on this distressing subject was now arrested by a slight tap on the door, at which, almost instantly. Prince Charles entered between two Highlanders, who placed themselves by his side. He wore a blue velvet bonnet, surmounted by the famous " white cockade," and a tartan coat with the star of St Andrew on his breast. A blue sash, embroidered with gold, hung gracefully over his shoulder, while at his side dangled a massy silver-hiked broadsword. His countenance was lightened up by a smile ; and immediately he began to discourse with the chief re- specting the approaching contest. During this interview, the latter seemed to have regained his formar spirits, smil- ing and even laughing at the humorous remarks with which the Prince's conversation, as usual, abounded. Ere long they sallied out together, joined the rest of the otScers, held a council of war, and resolved to attack the enemy im- mediately. The mist, hovering in dense clouds over the intervening morass, prevented either army from distinctly observing the movements of the other, so that, by the aid of a person well acquainted with the ground, the troops of Prince Charles were enabled to cross the marsh without observation, and to draw themselves up in order of battle. A scene of bustle and confusion pervaded the royal army, when the terrific yell, whereby the Highlanders commenced the attack, too truly proved that the hedge, which they fancied they saw before them, gradually becoming more and more conspicuous as the day approached, was none other than the armed host of the enemy. Short but decisive was the con- flict that followed. The hardy Highlanders, with the fury of a winter's torrent rushing down their mountain glens, fiercely assaulted the troops of the foe and, in five or six minutes, routed and put them to flight , and, amid the groans of the dyln;i warriors, rose the joyful shout of " God save King James — the Stuart for ever '" After the battle, the field presented, as might have been .^xpected, a most melan- choly and di.sgusting spectacle — strewt-d wth the mangled bodies of the slain who had fallen under the tremendous broadsword. The few surviving retainers of Glengorroch sui^lit out from the lifeless bodies of their clansmen, that ci their venerated master, which was pierced with many a wound. During the eng.agement he had fought bravely at the head of his own undisciplined group of mountaineers. The last charge was made. Glengorroch rejoiced in the expectation of victory, and the prophecy of Dhorach seemed unlikel,y to be realised. And victory came — but the chief- +00 TALES OF THE BOEDERS. •tain was piercea with a bullet which stretched him on the plain ; and on the now-cultured spot where he fell, a stateli' hawthorn tree, that has braved the storms of upwards of ninety winters, points out to the passing traveller the place M'here in peace he rests from his warfare ; near which a solitary mound marks the lowly sejiulchre of his faithful domestic, Dugald Glen, and the greater part of the ill-fated clan of Glengorroch. On the evening of that day whose morn had proved so fatal to her parent, did the fair Helen leave the tower of Glengorroch, with the intention of proceeding to the hamlet, to ascertain if any intelligence had arrived of the proceed- ings of the Prince ; but so occupied did her mind become with forebodings relative to the success of the enterprise whereon her father had embarked his life and fortunes that she proceeded in a totally different direction, through a wild and tractless ravine, utterly unconscious, or, at any rate, Leedless whither she wandered. Over this rugged path did she continue to move onwards, notwithstanding the many obstacles which impeded her progress, till her farther advancement was eventually stayed by her arriving on the margin of the deep lake of Gorroch, «hose placid bosom was then illumined by the pale rays of the moon. As she gazed on its tranquil waters, slumbering in all the beauty of an autumn's eve, the anxious feelings wh'ch previously harassed her mind became gradually subdued. Regardless of the hour and the solitude of the spot, she seated herself on a fragment of rock that lay upon the margin of the lake, and continued, if not to admire, at least to be soothed by the calm scene before her. At length, however, her attention was irresistibly distracted from the subject that had given rise to'hfr moonlight excursion, on observing, at about sixtv or seventy yards from her, a sudden burst of'Hame arise from a small island, whereon mouldered the ruins of a chapel, within whose vaults had been deposited, from time imme- morial,, the ashes of the chieftains of Glengorroch. Utterly at a loss to account for so strange a circumstance, and possessed of a mind impressed from her earliest childhood by the wild legends and superstitions which did then, as well as at the present day, exert so powerful a sway over the feelings of the Highlanders, it will not be wondered at that a sort of dread overcame her at the sight. It increased 'is the moon became once more obscured by a dense mass . )f clouds ; tlie dark interval being rendered yet more dismal by the terrific glare in which the whole of the trees upon the island were speedily enveloped. Motionless shs sat, with her eyes fixed in fearful gaze upon the towering conflagration, in which appeared to be fast consuming the spot that had ever been held sacred by the natives of that wild region, till the lake, and the hills in whose bosom it reclined, became once more irradiated by the more genial moonlight. Not to dispel, indeed, the terror which had now seized upon the maid of Glengorroch, did fair Luna once more throw her gladsome mantle over the heath-embrowned n,ountains ; for no sooner had the clouds floated from before her round disk, than the pale Helen descried a form, ap- parently of mortal make, gliding upon the surface of the lake, and Hearing the spot where she sat. She had just time to observe that neither boat nor oars were required lo carry this mysterious intruder on her solitude on his way to the shore, and to infer that none other than Dhorach nan Dim, of whom she had previously heard much, but whom she had never before seen, was approaching, before terror overcame her and she swooned. On arriving within a few yards of the damsel, he halted ; and looking long and steadfastly on her pale features, his withered countenance assumed a look of pity, as he uttered to himself the following in Gaelic : — " And has it, at length, fallen upon Dhorach nan Dhu to pronounce to the fairest maiden of these mountains the fate which has long been hovering over her Father's race ? Now is my father's son the most wretched of beings. Gh ! blame me not, lady, for even now, niethrnks, I see an upbraiding look distort thy most beautiful of countenances." Thus far had his solOoquy proceeded, when the object to whom it related, probably startled by the loud tone of the speaker, or supernaturally influenced, raised her head from the position into which it had fallen on the occurrence of the syncope, and, strange as it may appear, now looked with comparative composure upon the being whose very approach had well nigh bereft her of existence. A pause ensued, ascri- bable, probably, on the part of the one, to a certain incapa- bility of utterance which has been uniformly supposed to overcome mortals when in the presence of beings of " more than mortal mould," (and of the ethereal essence of Dhorach nan Dhu, it may readily be supposed Lady Helen did nor harbour the slightest doubt,) and on the part of the other, to an unwillingness to communicate the painful intelligence which devolved upon him, as the last seer who presided over the expiring destinies of Glengorroch. Turning, at length,' half round, and pointing to the flaming pile in the midst of the lake, he continued — " Lady of Gorroch, sesst thou yon- der flame, in which is consuming the spot where the ashes of thy ancestors repose? Thy father, and the clan whom thou sawest march forth from these glens, shall need no such restingplace ! They, and he from whom thou art sprung, have found a sepulchre on the battle-field of the Lowlander, and there in peace shall the last chieftain of Glengorroch rest from his warfare ! The work of Dhorach nan Dhu is now at a close ; and with yonder expiring flame," continued he, still pointing to the island where the fire was now nearly extinguished, " shall perish the last seer of thy father's clan !" Having thus spoken, he plunged, head- foremost, into tl;e lake ; and the reverberation of one solitary shriek among the surrounding caverns and glena, rang the death-knell of Dho- rach nan Dhu How or wnen, after the aljove awful meeting with Dho- rach nan Dhu, Lady Helen reached the tower of Glengor- roch, the narrative of the shepherd left us uninformed. Cer- tain it is, however, that from that period her health and beauty began to wane, notwithstanding aU the efforts of those who lent their skill to effect a cure ; and prior to her entering a foreign convent, not many months aftern'ards, such as were familiar with her, traced in the incoherency of her discourse, which always had reference to that fatal meeting a lamentable failure in her mind. WILSON'S ?l}t.«(torffitI, 2rfa&tttonari), ant) rmrtsfstatiSe TALES OF THE BORDERS, THE HEROINE. Aktrb it becunie kiioun tli;it t)io ivily Sir Roliprt Carey hail hurried away from thp deathbed of Queen lllizabeth, to announce to the Jeli^lited monarch of Scotland his suc- cession to the crown of England, a preat many English noblemen and gentlemen came to Scotland on much the same errand that brings so manj- of them at this day, viz. to hunt ; the game, in the one case, being place and favour, and in the other, blackcock and grouse. Among the rest, there w:is one Sir Willoughby Somerset, of Sonierset-IIall, in Devonshire, a knight of gay and chivalric manners, excellently set oft' by an exterior on which nature and art had expended their best favours, but exhibiting, at same time, in his total want of true honour and mental acquire- ments, that tendency to a fair distribution, which nature, in all her departments, delights in displaying — suggesting, as it did to an ancient philosopher, tluit tbepH/c/i;v(jn and the utile are dealt out in equal portions under a whimsical lavf egainst their combination. Having arrived, with his gay suit of servants and splendid equipage, at the palace of Iloiyrood, Sir Willoughby was uiformed that there were no apartments close to the palace whinh could be given to hira for his accommodation, in consequence of the great influx of noble visiters who had come from all parts of Scotland and England to testify their allegiance, and express their satisfaction, whether real or assumed, on the occasion of King James' succession. Sir Willoughby, therefore, took up his abode in a house in the Canongate, which was pulled do^vn more than a hundred years ago — at that time known by the name of the House of Gordon, in consequence, it is supposed, of having at one time been occupied by the ducal family of that name. The house which Sir Willoughby thus took possession of was situated on the south side of the street, and nearly oppo- site to the close called Big Loch-end Close, which possessed at that time a very ditferent appearance from what it does at present ; for the double row of low Flemish-looking huts which lined the narrow entry, have given place to modern buildings, which do not look half so well as their more hum- ble predecessors. In one of those little huts, there lived, at that time — un- conscious, doubtless, that their names would thus become of historical interest centuries after they were gathered to their fathers — a man called Adam Hunter, and his wife, Janet, both of some importance in the small sphere of their own little gossiping world ; but, if these humble individuals liad been all that their lowly mansion had contained, the chronicler would scarcely have stooped to notice either it or its inhabitants. There was a third inmate in that house — an orphan girl, called JIargaret Williamson; a young, slender, azure-eyed creature, about seventeen years of age, of startl- ing and bewitching beauty, and of a simplicity, kindness, and meekness of disposition, that endeared her to thou- sands. Producing that kind of interest and sensation in her own limited circle, which is so often found to be the efi'ect v! the mysterious power of beauty, though allied to poverty, wldch, indeed, sometimes enhances it, Margaret socmed as unconscious of the magic influence of her charms, as she was of the singular fate that awaited her. She had been beard of vrhci''^ she was not seen ; and, innocent and hami- t£ss as sl'p "'•''■ ^'"^ ''■"^ '^^^ ^'''^" passed unheeded by the {. I Vol. 1. '■ wise woiiic ii" of her day, who, in sjjite of fire and Kinf) James' wrath, i)rovided her, according to their love or their s[)ite, with a j)rison or a palace, as her lot upon earth. Ai already iiinteil, Margaret w.os represented aa being an orphan, brought up by the gratuitous kindness of Ailam Hunter and liis wife — though there were not wanting some who thought that her parentage was not of the equivocal kind that was represented. Scotland was not, at that time, so far behind in the love and practice of gossiping, as that there should be any want of the usual kind and number of remarks on the new-comcrj to the house of Gordon ; and the family of Adam Iluntei were not behind their neighbours in their curiosit}'. " He's a braw knight that wha has come to the House o' Gordon," said Janet Hunter, one night when they were sitting round the fire. " Ken j'e wha, or what, or whence he is," inquired Adam, "attour the mere title an form o' his knighthood? " I ken naething about him," replied Janet ; " save that his name is Sir Willoughby Somerset, and that he has a great number o' servitors, wham he treats like princes. They say he is gallant and weel-favoured ; and Elspet Craig, the wise woman o' the Watergate, says, in her fashion o' speech, that he is a rock whereon the happiness, and peace o' mind, and honour o' mony a' bonny maiden may perish like the silly boats that trust to the smiles o' an autumn day. But, if I'm no cheated, Peggy Williamson can tell mair about the knight than a' the ' wise women' frae tb* Watergate to St Mary's." " An' if she can," said Adam, " it may be waur for her than if she were as deep learned as Elspet Craig in the mysteries o' that art whereby she works sae meikle mischief to" her faes, and may, peradventure, bring upon her head the vengeance of the "law. I houp better things o' Peggy.* " I ken naething aboot the Knight o' the White Fea- ther," said Margaret, with a deep sigh ; " and wherefore should I ? — he's far abune my degree." " But ye ken, at least," rejoined Adam, "that he wears a white feather, my bonny bird — and feathered creatures are flichtie, especially when they're far frae their ain countrie. Even our nin robin, wha condescends to come and eat our crumbs, when the snaw is on the hill, leaves us in summer ; and, mair than a' that, he's a bird o' prey, and doesna hesi- tate, when he has a gude opportunity, to soil his bonny red breast wi' the blood o' his companions." It was apparent that both Adam Hunter and Janet were suspicious of Margaret's limited knowledge of the knight ; and they had good reason to be so ; for Janet had been told that, one night, when Jlargaret had said she was goingto meeta person of the name of SimonFrazer — a trades- man who had been making honourable proposals to her.along with many others who were proud to be called her suitors — she had been seen walking with a gentleman wrapped up in a Spanish cloak, supposed to be Sir Willoughby, in the glen of St Arthur's Seat, called the Hunter's Bog. On an - other occasion, she had been followed by Simon Fnizer toa trysting place, kno-\\Ti by the name of the Hunter's Rest — a large boulder of basalt lying on the side of the bog, and remarkable to geologists by its unaccountable position. On this stone JIargaret had sat till the moon had concealed her horns behind the top of St Arthur's, and the glen had gradu- .•dly become enveloped in the shade of the hill. Simon Frazcr took advantage of the gloom, and concealed himself 402 TALES OF THE BOEDEES nrar to the spot where jrargiiret sat ; and, amiclst tlie silence which reigned in this secluded place, lie could distinctly hear the sif^hs of the maiden, as the hope of seeing the per- son she had come to meet became fainter and fainter. " AVae's my puir deluded heart !" she said, in a desponding and tremulous voice ; " what is it that drives rae, like a charmed bird or a dementit thing, into the power o' this braw knight, in spite o' the warnings o' Elspet Craig, the admonition o' Adam Hunter, and, what's abune a', the fearsome visions o' my ain wild dreams? Can it be that I, wha hae seen, and may still see, sae mony bended knees o' lovers o' my ain country supplicating ray favours as if their condition here and in anither warld depended on a blink o' these worthless een, sit here, even noo, at the Hunter's Rest, a mile frae my ain harae, and when naething but spirits are Ld the glen, to meet a lover frae a strange land, wha speaks u strange language, and mak's love in a strange fashion ? But it is even sae. My heart is nae langer my ain. He has ta'en it info his ain keeping, and he may, in his ain pleasure, as easily break it as he may crush the bonny blue bells that flower there i' the glen." At the termination of Jlargaret's simple soliloquy, the sound of footsteps was heard, and there soon followed the greeting of lovers. Margaret's spirits soon revived, and, having taken Sir Willoughby's arm, she said, playfully, as she looked up into his face — " The faithless moon has been truer this nicht than ye hae been ; for she left the tap o' the hill half an hour syne, and ye are only here noo." " Upbraid me not, my fair IMargaret," answered Sir Willougliby ; " for I was scared at the Friar's Path by some person who seemed inclined to follow me, and I was obliged to change my road ; but thou knowest that love is fed by hindrances, and its course is none of the straightest. ' " I didna think," answered the simple maiden, " that tnie love stood in need o' onything else in this warld, than the company and kindness o' the twa lovers to ane anither." " By my feather, IMargaret, that is a true maiden's speech I But I do not think that St Arthur, who must surely be the lover's saint, will thank us for an argument, instead of a love token, on such a beautiful night as this. Observe these gleams of Cynthian glory, falling like streaks of silver on the tops of the crags, investing the darkness of this glen with a mystery in which love delights, and thou wilt forget thy argument, in the sweets of our accustomed dalliance." " That is a licht aith. Sir Willoughby, that ye hae sworn," answered the maiden ; " but every land, as the sang says, has its ain laugh, and it may also hae its ain aith ; and I may weel forgie ye that, for the bonny words ye hae now spoken. Foreign lands hae finer words than puir Scotland ; but dinna tliink that I canna enjoy the beauty o' these silvery rocks and that mirky glen, because my silly heart can find nae utterance to its feelings, but by its ain unmeaning thrabs." " And that is nature's best and most beautiful language, my sweet bird," said Sir Willoughby, kissing the yielding maiden ; " nor would I give one throb of thy fair bosom for all the eloquence of poetry." Holding such conversation, the lovers passed deeper into the shades of the hill, and disappeared ; but the death-like silence of the place, discovered, to the disappointed Simon Frazer, many sighs and protestations which otherwise would have been sacred to the happy pair. Many such meetings had Sir Willoughby and jMargaret. Their walks became more frequent, and of longer duration; and it was often a late hour before Margaret returned to her home. It could not be that such a change in the habits of the girl could escape th'! keen eye of pubUc curiosity, and far less the suspicious guardianship of Adam Hunter. Wide spread, and generally known, as was the beauty of the maiden, so, in proportion, was the voice of scandal heard over the town, whispering the strange tidings, that Peggy William- son had been seduced by the great knight who lived is the House of Gordon. The circumstance, indeed, very soon became apparent, from the condition of the unhappy girl, who could no longer conceal her premancy. She was, in consequence, sorely beset by Adam Hunter, and interrogated whether she had received any promise of marriage, or any pledge whereon she could found any expectation or hope that the knight's intentions towards her were of an honourable nature. On this subject, no satisfaction covdd be got from JIargaret, who persisted in a dogged silence, whenever any question was put to her, tending to implicate, in any way, the man who, to all appearance, had ruined her. But chance brought to light what Margaret had been so anxious to conceal ; for one evening, -Janet Hunter discovered in JIargaret's sleepin? , apartment a small scented paper, curiously folded up, which she instantly carried to her husband. Adam took the paper to a learned clerk, in Blackfriars' Hospital — (for few persons, at that day, could either write, or read writ- ing) — who read it to him ; and he was surprised to find that it contained a promise, on the faith of a knight, that Sir Willoughby Somerset would make, when time and circum- stance afforded opportunity, I\Iargaret Williamson his weA dcd wife. The paper was again returned to the place from which it was taken. This paper, combined ■n-ith Jfargaret's pregnancy, having satisfied Adam Hunter of the truth of the general report and his own suspicions, he lost no time in waiting upon the knight. Being a man of a hasty and even furious ten>- per, he taxed Sir Willoughby, in unmeasured terms, witn the seduction of his ward, and demanded, with a stem de- termination, satisfaction to the maiden and to himself. Touched to the quick, and wounded in his pride by the pertinacious manner of Adam Hunter, Sir Willoughby lost in turn his temper, and, seizing a baton which lay near him, he struck the choleric Scot a heavy blow on the head, and, with the aid of his servants, kicked him out of the house. One of Sir Willoughby's servants, who aided In this ejec- tion and outrage, was Richard Forster ; the person who, it was supposed, first procured a meeting between his master and Margaret. lie was possessed of his master's secrets, in this and many other dishonourable amours ; and, though he now, by his master's orders, assisted in the expulsion of Adam Hunter, he hated him in his heart, in consequence of a blow which he had some time before received from him, on which occasion he had threatened to report his master's practices to Sir Robert Carey, who woiild not have failed to communicate them to King James, whereby Sir Willoughby's status at Court would have been lost, and his ruin accom- plished. The knightwished, therefore, to get quit of Richard; but to part vrdh. him living was to part with his secrets; and he had accordingly made up his mind to get him disposed of in such a manner as that he could tell no tales. An op- portunity for this occurred sooner than might have been ex- pected. Stung with an ungovernable rage, Adam Hunter, on passing the threshold of the House of Gordon, threw him- self on his knees, and vowed to Almighty God that he would take the first opportunity that fortune afforded him of de- priving his enemy of Efe. This dreadful purpose, thus de- finitively and impiously settled, calmed Adam Hunter's rage; for he felt, as if by anticipation, that he was revenced. He walked deliberately home, and, ■n-ithouthintinganything of his deadly purpose to his wife, sent for Simon Frazer, ftlargaret's rejected suitor, communicated to him his inten- tion, and requested his co-operation. Frazer entered into the scliome with all the spirit of his clan, and all the rage of a disappointed lover towards his successful rival. TheT resolved to fix the manner of accomplishing their purpose that evening, after Janet and Margaret had retired to rest.** In Uic evening, when Adam Hunter and Simon Frazef-' TAIiES OF THE BORDEES. 4.03 met, ilargaret liail just ictiied to LcJ, but not to sleep. 11 er mind was occupied Avilh the tLouglits of her situation. 8Le had now become suspicious of l^Ir AVillouf;hby's inten- tions. In her late interviews with him, he had been dis- tant and shy ; and he had even refused, on one occasion, to . meet her, alleging, as an excuse, that he was engaged to go to an evening entertainment, to which it was ascertained he never went. He had, besides, endeavoured to get back Irom her the letter, which, in an unguarded moment, when intoxicated with love and wine, he had given to her. All these circumstances satisfied the unhajipy maiden that she was about to become, or rather had already become, the dupe of a heartless villaia. She now considered herself etauding on the very verge of ruin ; about to become, as . I'Uspet Craig had foreboded, the ^actim of a passion insi- d;ously introduced into her young heart ; and left to 'he scorn of an uuiceling world, or the unavailing pity of a conceited and unfruitful philanthropy. These reflections v/ere passing through her mind, when she heard Simon Frazer come into the house ; for her bed was so situated that she could hear everything that occurred in the adjoin- ing apartment. She soon ascertained the object of this late meeting of the two friends ; and, with feelings that shook her whole frame, she heard it fixed that, on the follovrag evening, when Sir Willoughby was expected to go to an evening entertainment at the palace, Adam Hunter should gain the staircase window of Widow Hutchison, fire upon his enemy, and, upon seeing him fall, make his escape, along with his friend, by a back passage that led to the North Back of theCanongate. This resolved upon, the two friends parted. The agitation wliich the knowledge of this fierce and bloody purpose produced in the mind of ilargaret, was pro- portioned to the love which she still bore to her seducer, and to the gentle character of the maiden, who shrunk from the very thought of violence. Her nerves had, moreover, been severely aflected by the train of sorrow-ful thoughts which, at the moment when she heard the fatal resolu- tion, were passing through her mind. But a new feeling soon arose. She was now called upon to act, and the urgency of the case requiring the most prompt communica- tion to Sir Willoughby, assuaged, in some degree, her ner- vous excitement, by forcing her ideas into a train calcu- lated to the contrivance of some method of meeting him in the morning. At daybreak, Margaret rose from her sleepless pillow, ■wrapt herself up in her plaid, and went and secreted hersell' behind a large tree, which stood in the garden at the back of the House of Gordon, from which she could observe the bedroom window of Sir Willoughby. It was a cold raw morning ; the rain «as pouring in torrents, and bursts of distant thunder shook the heavens. In this situation, ]\Iar- garet sat for two hours, wet, wearied, and disconsolate. Her attention was, in some degree, arrested by a new equipage that stood in the court-yard, apparently ne\\ly anived trom a distance ; and she concluded that Sir Willoughby had visiters — a prediction which she had good reason to verify. Her eye sought continually the casement of the knight's sleeping apartment, >vhich was at last opened, and to her surprise and mortification, she saw standing behind the dressing glass, the form of a gay and fashionable lady, with Sir Willoughby standing behind her — his head leaning on her left shoulder, and his right hand patting, with playful fondness, her cheek, and arranging her ringlets with the sportive gaiety and confidence of a professed libertine. Overcome by this apparition, which so completely justi- fied Margaret's suspicions of the character of her lover, and wearied and wasted as she was by the scene of the previous night, the fevered vigil w hich succeeded, and the cold and wet position she had so long occupied on this morning, she became faint ; and, being unable longer to stand, leant herself, in a •looping posture, against the stem of the tree under >i hich she stood. Sir Will(ji;phliy now cntfrcd (ho garden ; he had observed her from the window, and came with marke-d displeasure in his countenance. " Why this early visit, young maiden ?" he said, with a querulous tone of voice, and without making any eSbrt to assist her to rise. " I dinna come here this morning. Sir Willoughby Somer- set," replied Margaret, with the warmth of oiVended pride, and standing up, nerved by her feelings, which were roused as far as the gentleness of her nature peimitted — " I dinna come here this morning on my ain account, though maybe I hae as meikle reason to do that as the braw leddie ^vha sits, even noo, in your sleeping chamber, and whose braw hair ye were pleased, in a fashion of merriment, to put in disor- der. Oh, that it had pleased heaven that ye had deranged nae mair o' me than my worthless locks, I might this morn- ing hae been the blithe, thochtless, and innocent Peggy Williamson, that I V'as when my stray wits left me to mysel' at the Hunter's Rest! Na, Sir Willoughby, I dinna come to tell ye o' your broken troth, and ray lost love, and the ruin o' a puir lassie, wha wad gladly hae laid down her worthless life to save yours. These things, — though, by our memories, whilk are but as the quicksand to the finger-marks of the drooning sailor, they may ance be forgotten — are recorded, doubtless, whar' they shall remain, ay, as the graving on adamant. Yet, though these things, in this world at least, concern only me, wha am, doubtless, o' sma concernment to ony living mortal ; and though they may cost me mi/ life, whilk may be o' sma avail, they are o' less importance to me at this time than what I cam' to tell ye, being naething less than how to save your ain. Adam Hunter has resolved to slay ye this night, as ye gang to Holyrood. Tak' anither road than the Canon- gate ; or, what is better, stay at hame, and save a life that is dearer to Peggy Williamson than her ain. — Fareweel, fare- weel !" And before Sir Willoughby could reply, she had left him, waving her hand to him as she went. But, on look- ing back, as she opened the door of the garden, she saw the same lady — whom she afterwards ascertained to be Lady Arabella Winford, a person of bad repute, with whom Sir Willoughby had resided for some time on the continent . enter the garden, and greet him in a manner very different from the modest custom of Scotland at that day. After the departure of JIargaret, Sir Willoughby, instead of being in any degree affected by gratitude for the preser- vation of his life, or by compassion for the kind maiden who had been instrumental in doing him that service, pro- jected, from her information, a scheme marked by coward- ice and cruelty, whereby he might get rid of his servant, Richard Forster, and put an end to him and the secrets with which he had entrusted him, at the same moment. He resolved, and true to the character he bore — a combination of cruelty and frivolity — he resolved, amidst the blandish- ments of meretricious affection, and the imbecile badinage and persiflage of a strumpet's conversation, to send Richard down the Canongate in the evening, wrapped up in his cloak, and wearing his hat and white plume, by which he had become so remarkable. The project was executed as it was planned ; and a deed was done with which Edin- burgh, and indeed Scotland, rang for many a day. Richard Forster, wearing the cloak and plumed hat of his mastei, was shot dead in the Canongate, opposite to the house of Widow Hutchison, by the unerring hand of Adam Hunter, who, seeing his supposed victim fall, flew in the direction of the Calton Hill, leaving the gun, with which he had done the deed, lying in a hedge, which at that time skirted a part of the north back of the Canongate. A hue and cry was soon raised against Adam Hunter, who, about a week after the crime was committed, was laid hold of by the oflicers of the law, and lodged in prison. ■Jullicicnt evidence hanng, in the opinion of the crown 404 TALES OF THE BORDERS. aTltiorities, been procured for a conviction, the unfortunate man was, in due course of time, brought to trial before the High Court of Justiciary. The court met on the loth day of November ; and Adam Hunter, guarded on each side by members of the City Guard, sat, with the stoical indifference which marked his character, to hear the evidence to be brought forward againt Lim, and, in all probability, to receive sentence of death. The august appearance of the judges, sitting in their black robes, the venerable and even dignified aspect of the unfortunate culprit, and the strange and mysterious crime with which he stood charged, joined with the fate of the well-known Canongate beauty, with which that crime was unaccountably associated, produced a sensation in the Justiciary Court which had not been ex- perienced for many years. The deepest silence prevailed when the indictment was read ; and the Lord Justice- Clerk, having put the ordinary question to the pannel of guilty or not guilty, Adam Hunter rose with firmness, and calmly nnd respectfully answered — " Not guilty, my Lord, of the murder of Richard Forster." The trial proceeded, and the crown advocate spoke : — " Wy Lords, and gentlemen of the jury, this is a case of murder, whereto, so far as I can see, no defence or plea of Justification, or even palliation, can be set up by the prisoner at the bar, unless it be that which is indeed an aggravation, that he did intend to kill one man against whom he en- tertained malice prepense, and slew another against whom he had no cause of quarrel. On the day preceding the commission of this murder, the prisoner at the bar was, in consequence of his outrageous and brutal conduct in the House of Gordon, occupied at present by Sir WLUoughby Somerset kicked by that honourable knight out of doors, whereby, being fiercely enraged, he impiously vowed a desperate revenge, the which, though he had taken it in- Btanter and killed his enemy, percilus rixa, would still, by the just laws of this laud, which make no distinction between forethought, felony, and chaud mdla^ have been murder, and suflicient to subject the prisonei to the penal consequences of that heinous crime. But, rjy Lords, the prisoner cannot even plead homicidium in rixa; iui he went liome and meditated upon his crime ; settled deliberately the modus trucidandi in cool blood — or, as we say, sangiiine frigida ; and, on the following day, watched, sanguinem sitiens, for his victim ; and more like a blood- hound, canis vesligator, than a human being, deprived him, whom he supposed to be his victim, of life. But revenge is known to be blind, and, instead of his enemy, the prisoner murdered, by shooting him through the body, a person who was not in any degree guilty of having ofl'ended Lim ; but who was going about his private^aflaus, as any of us might have been, unconscious of mer'ting, standing in no fear of receiving, and knowing no reason for expect- ing such an awful fate as that which awaited him. This, I say, is an aggravation of the crime of murder, in so far as, while in the ordinary case there may, in man's estimation, ce some palliation in consequence of the infliction of an injury — in this there can be none. The witnesses for the crown were then called. The death cf Richard Forster, caused by a shot from a gun, was proved. It was also proved, that the gun found in the hedge was Adam Hunter's. The quarrel with Sir Willoughby Somer- set waa next established, as also the fact that the deceased wore, on that evening, the diess of his master. The macer of court then called out the name of the next witness, which was that of Margaret Williamson ; but, before she had time to make her appearance, Adam Hunter rose from his seat and addressed the court in the following terms : — " My Lords, it doesna appear to me, that, in the eve o' God, or even in that o' man, it can abide the twitch o' natural reason that a puir bairn should, in ignorance o' the relation whilk she bears to Lim against whom she is to swear, be entrapped by cunning men o the law, to gie evi- dence against the life o' him wha gare her life. The veins o' IMargaret Williarason are filled wi' my bluid, albeit her heart mayna beat in unison wi' the ordinary feelings o' a ba:m to a lather ; for she, puir thing, has nae knowledge that Adam Hunter is her parent, whom she is bound to love and respect, and therefore she may this day, in that unseemly ignorance whilk I and my nife Janet have im- posed upon her, say what at sorao future time she may re- pent wi' tears o' bitterness, whilk winna recall to her the parent she has slain. I canna think, therefore, my Lords, that ye can consider it unreasonable in a parent — a character whilk maybe some o' yoursels bear, and, if ye do, oh, think what it is to be doomed by your ain bairn ! — that this puir lassie be tauld, before she be examined, that she is bane o' the bane, and flesh o' the flesh, o' him whom she is about to arraign o' murder." As soon as Adam Hunter had finished his speech, which, delivered with great emphasis, produced a great sensation in all the persons present, who never understood that Margaret Williamson was in any way related to him, the crown counsel stood up and said — -. ; ■ " IMy Lords, this is an ingenious device, on the part -^ . the prisoner at the bar, to deprive the law of its evidence. This girl, who is about to be brought forward as a witness, has been held out to the world as an orphan — a fact that may be testified by hundreds of persons, and is, indeed, admitted by the culprit himself. The story now fabricated by the prisoner is, indeed, improbable — as what father would deny his child ? I cannot, therefore, consent to allow any communication to be made to the witness, whereby the fountain of evidence may be contaminated by prejudice, and truth itself sacrificed to the false feelings and hysterical emotions of a relationship which, in my opinion, has no foundation in fact." The judges, having disbelieved the statement of Adam Hunter, refused to comply with his request. ^Margaret Williamson was, accordingly, brought in and placed in the witnesses' bo;;. Upon being examined, she gave, in eWdence, the substance of the conversation which took place between Adam Hunter and Simon Frazer on that night when the death of Sir Willoughby Somerset was resolved upon. She was then asked whether she had, between that period and the death of Richard Forster, any communication with Sir Willoughby ; but to this question she refused to give any answer, or rather she, by the efl'ect of her simphcity — in this instance, however, made subservient to something ap- proaching to cunning — so completely baflled the men of la\y that they were obliged to give up the question in despair. On the part of Adam Hunter, an attempt was made to prove an alibi ; but that having failed, the jury, upon the charge of the judge, who considered the crime proved, returned a verdict of guilty, and Adam Hunter received sentence of death. The speech which Adam Hunter had made on the occa- sion of his trial, as already said, excited much sensation ; and the truth of the fact stated by him was subjected to investi- gation. It was found to be perfectly true, though no notic<> is taken of it in the books of adjournal. Margaret William- son was the illegitimate child of Adam Hunter, by the daughter of Elspet Craig, who died in ginng birth to the infant ; and it was to gratify the prejudices of Janet Hunter, who refused to bring up the child on any other condition, that the parentage had been so industrously concealed. The unfortunate Adam Hunter was executed according to his sentence. At the time of his execution, considerable uproar was observed among the populace, who, displaying the usual shrewdness of the lower orders in Scotland, per- ceived that, although Adam could not be justified, he wai only one of the actors in the tragedy ; and that, while theu/- unfortunate countryman was expiating Lis crime by an iguo-^ TALES OF THE BORDERS. 405 minious death, tlie Enplisli kiiifjlil, whoso oiiitiity towards Kichard Foistcr, aiul sliuiiul'ul conduct towards Adam's dauf^liter, were now gciieiallv known, was allowed to escajic. The rumours thus circulated hy tlic crowd at the execu- tion of Adam Hunter were not uidviiown to the crown olli- cers, who felt the force of the extraordinary circumstance, that Richard For.ster should, on that fatal night, have worn the clothes of his master. That fact was, moreover, in a considerable degree, exidained hy another, which had been elicited from one of Sir W'illoughliy's servants, of the name of William Evans, viz. that .Sir W'illoughbv and liichard had bad a quarrel, which iiroduecd high words between the j';irties, and some threats on tiie part of the knight. Tbc crown officers were, besides, moved by the curious circum- btanoe, that Margaret Williamson had so artfully evaded the question put to her on the occasion of the trial of Adam Hunter; while it was almost impossible to believe that she would not have communicated to Sir Willoughby the plot tiiat was laid for his life, notwithstanding of the injury she liad received by being made the victim of his seduction. A warrant w.as accordingly issued for the apprehension of Sir Willoughby Somerset. He was found by the officers in the company of liady Arabella Winford, torn from her arms, and lodged in jail. The eharge against him was the murder of Richard Forster, peqietrated by his having, scicns et prv- dcns, sent him where death awaited him. Application was, in the meantime, again made by the crown otticcrs to Mar- garet Williamson, for information as to whether she had had any communication with Sir Willoughby on the d.ay on which Richard Forster was slain. Margaret's answers were still of an evasive character, and her examinators left her, stating that they would visit her again, and use some other means of extorting the truth. Before tliis threat was put in execution, the knight, having heard that Margaret was in the hands of the examinators, overcome by fear and coward- ice, and indulging the mean and despicable hope of being able to persuade his victim to save his life a second time, still without rendering her justice, sent for her to visit him in prison — a request with which she instantly complied. " My fair Margaret," commenced the knight, " I hare sent for thee to know what are still thy feelings towards one who loves thee, and now requires some aid and conso- lation, such as only thou canst render him. I flatter myself that, at one time, 1 was not indilTercnt to thee ; and, if my present peril were past, (and thou art the arbiter of my fate,) I may find a suitable opportunit}' of shewing thee that I still love thee as fervently as I did when I used to meet thee, by the light of the moon, at the Hunter's Rest. I understand that my persecutors have been with thee, and it is ray pleasure to be informed, from tliy own fair lips, that it is not thy intention to communicate to them what passed between thee and me in my garden, on the day of the death of my worthless servant." " I didna think," replied Margaret, with calmness and dignity, " that Sir Willoughby Somerset could hae sae far mistaken the heart of JIargaret Williamson as to liac found, in the compass o' his ain, any doubt sufficient to cause him to put that question to her. Aince already hae I saved your life, and 1 would be laith to throw that awa now which i had before sae meikle pains — though, wae's my heart ! sae little thanks or reward — to preserve. Na, na ; let the offi- cers of the law tak' their course — mine has been lang fixed : and a' the hand-screws and stocks o' Scotland, and even the black wuddy itsel', winna wTcst frae me sae meikle as would injure a single hair o' your head. It may he that I only preserve ye for the love o' anithei ; nut I will at least hae that satisfaction — and it is better to the broken heart than a fause love that has now nae power to bind it — that I hae rendered, as our holy religion inculcates, good for evil." T\ These sentiments only interested or concerned Sir Wil- Voughby in so far as they told him that the fair maiden would not betray him. He mistook entirely the Scotch character geiu rally ; and he had not himself any of those high-minded qlialilies which could enable him to appreciate Margaret's. Betrayed, by her determination to do justice to her own st;indard of female duty, into an iilea that the sacrifices she had thrown, and was again to throw, on the shrine of that dut)' which she h.ad, in her fervid imagin- ation deifieil, were mere indications of a wish to oblige and conciliate him. Sir Willoughby thotigbt he might safely go a step farther, and endeavour to wring out of her the written {iromise of marriage he had so unguardedly given her. He began by using some more of the bland laiigai.'ige by which he hail originally beguiled her ; hut he h.id scarcely ajj- pro.ichcd the subject on which her mind was fixed, when Margaret, with the perspicacity of her sex in these tender points, interrupted him ; and, raising herself to the utmost extent of her height, while the fire flashed from her dark blue e3-e, said — " If ye can tak' frae me the burden o' shame I hae carried for six moons under my broken heart, and restore to me my lost repute, aince pure as the snaw that the winds o' heaven hae driven o'er muir and mountain, and tear from ray puir crazy brain the image I h.ae made an idol o', and on whose unholy altar I hae sacrificed my maiden virtue — and maybe that eternal life that hasna been promised to the trafficker in sin — then. Sir Willoughby, ye may ask me for that whilk stands to me in the place of ane haly covenant, and is the only solace left to bind up my broken spirit, and be a sign and a token to your bairn whom I hae 3'et to bear, that its ])uir mother, though doubtless guilty 0' a great sin, was the victim o' a knight's broken troth, and maybe en- titled to a drap 0' mercy in her burning cup. Tell me. Sir, to keep frae the officers of the law the secret that would bring ye to a shamefu' death, and I will part wl' it as sune as I will part wi' the «Titten testimoniid of what a merciful God, and the less merciful laws o' my countrie, may, per- adventure, deal wi' as ane haly bond o' matrimony." With these words, JIargaret abruptly left the prison, and Sir Willoughby, concerned only for his liberation, denied access to his heart to the sentiments which reflected so much honour on the feelings of his victim, from whom he was entitled to expect nothing but revenge. IMargaret was soon again visited by the officers of the law; but she remained firm to her resolution, not to say anything tending to implicate Sir Willoughby. Recourse was therefore had, according to the usages of that period, to the ordinary mode of dealing with an unwilling witness. She was now told, that, as a person refractory and disobe- dient to the laws of her country, she must go to prison, where the nieans of extorting her withholden testimony would be more in the power of the crown officials. She was, accordingly, conveyed to the prison in which Sir Wil loughby was confined, and intimation was solemnly made to her, that, on the following moniing, she would be subjected to the rack of the thunibikins. The threat was fulfilled with fidelity and vigour. On the first application of this cruel instrument, the poor girl screamed with agony ; but the unstability of her frame, attenuated and weakened by her previous sufferings, and her pregnancy, loosened, under the efl'ect of the torture, that connection between agony and re- solution, without which all tortured methods of extorting testimony must he unavailing Every increased pressure produced an agonized scream, succeeded by a state of in- sensibility, or faint, which these deluded searchers for truth had as much difficulty in bringing her out of, as they had in producing. 1 be torture continued to be ap[ilied, at stated intervals, tor days,and the screamsof the unfortunate maiden could not fail to find their way to the ears, if not to the heart, of the wretch by whom her suffi'rings had been occa- sioned. Little impression, however, was ])roduccd on Mar- garet's resolution to die with her secret ; ani^ upon the 406 TALES OF THE BORDERS. occasion of one application of the instrument, the syncope produced had so long a period of duration, that the medi- cal man who was present declared that it could not he ap- plied again without danger of producing death. The olficers were now inclined to allow the period of Margarets pregnancy to pass before they again applied the instrument — a circumstance of rather an anomalous nature in the proceedings of these lovers of truth ; for a true me- dical philalethes would naturally have conceived, that the weaker the habit of the patient, the more certain was the chance of a recovery. In the meantime, however, a cir- cumstance came to the ears of the king's prosecutor, which induced him to relax his energies in the prosecution of Sir Willoughby. Several of his servants now declared, (no doubt by the aid of concealed bribery,) that Richard Forster was in the habit of attiring himself in his master's garments, and personating him in the prosecution of amours. In addition to this, Janet Hunter, though called upon, could not swear that IMargaret Williamson had stirred from the house on the day of the murder. Unable to force Margaret to speak, and influenced by the testimony of these witnesses, the public prosecutor came to the resolution of liberating Sir Willoughby, and the knight was accordingly let out of gaol. Within a few hours after his liberation, he was on bis way to England, in company with Lady Arabella. He had de- voted the whole period of his imprisonment to writing letters to her, and venting curses against Scotland. Margaret Williamson was forgotten, in the hope of finding in the arms of Lady Arabella a panacea for his wrongs, and a solace of his sufferings — for it is as true as it is remarkable, that the truly wicked are the most querulous of justice, and the most impatient of her retributions. Nothing was, for a long time, heard of Sir Willoughby ; but she whom he had ruined and deserted, remained to the inhabitants of Edinburgh as an object of their pity, and an example to their children. Margaret bore a son, and Janet Hunter soon died of a broken heart, for the loss of Adam. Blargaret was thus left to the charity of a world which is often moved to pity only through the selfish conceit of a comparison between the alms-giver and the alms-receiver, and begged her bread from the doors of the inhabitants of Edinburgh. Five years after the transactions now detailed, and when King James had been nearly as long seated on the throne of England, Lionel Apsley, a gentleman in the confidence of the king, arrived in Edinburgh. He was observed to make inquiries after a person of the name of Margaret or Peggy Williamson, who, he was informed, resided in a small ground room in the White Horse Close, in the Canongate of Edin- burgh. A man who was standing at the top >f Leith Wynd took him to Margaret's residence. Upon entering the humble abode, he found the object of his search making porridge for the son of the English knight. Lionel entered into conver- sation with Margaret, and endeavoured to draw her into a recital of the story of her life ; but she evaded, though in the gentlest manner, his efforts, stating, that her griefs and her secrets were her own, and that the making the one known would not make the other unfelt. She had been much annoyed, she said, by the impertinent interrogations of gos- siping people, who often insulted her by withholding their charity when they found their love of gossip ungratified. Lionel made many visits to IMargaret, and, by degrees, succeeded in breaking down her reluctance to speak of her- self. He told her, that he had been commissioned to visit her, and had come down to Scotland for the sole purpose of seeing and serving her, and pledged his honour, as a gentle- man, that the only use he would rna^e of her information would be in turning it to her advantage He was evidently alicady well acquainted with many pai ts of her story ; but the obi's*' object of his inquiry related to the written pro- mise of marriage which, he had been given to understand, she had got from Sir Willoughby. JIargaret, at first, would not admit that any such document existed, and appeared to feel acu'.e pain from Lionel's urgent solicitation to Bee it. Overcome, at last, by his importunity, she went to a bttle chest, which was secreted in a recess dug into the wall of her apartment, and ha^-ing drawn it out, and opened it with trembling hands, she took from it the small, but curiously folded piece of paper, still retaining the fragrance with which Sir Willoughby's gallantry had invested it. With convulsive sobs, Margaret looked at the paper, and handed it to the stranger. Lionel read it, and found it to contain the following words, WTitten in a small affected character, which bore evident traces of having been penned by the writer when in a state bordering at least on intoxication. " Sir Willoughby Somerset, of Somerset HaU, knight of the noble order of — (here there was drawn a rude image of George and the dragon) — doth, by these lines, declare that he doth truly intend to wed IMargaret Williamson, and this he promises to do on the faith of a knight of the order to which he belongs. Given at the Hunter's Rest, this 2Gth day of April, in the year of the succession of King James to the throne of England." This document Lionel copied, and having returned the origiral to Margaret, he asked her if she would accompany him to London. " If it he to meet Sir Willoughby Somerset,' answered she, " I will sooner walk to the graves o' Sir Patrick Spence and the Scottish lords wba lie between Leith and Aber- dour." " It is not to meet Sir Willoughby, my fair maiden," said Sir Lionel ; " and if thou wilt trust to the honour of one who is not a knight, I promise thee thou shall not have cause to regret thy journey." After much solicitation, IMargaret agreed to go to Lon- don, and take her child with her; and Lionel having got her equipped in a manner so as to escape observation, they departed for London, where they arrived after ten days travelling. On their arrival, Slargaret and her child were taken to respectable lodgings, where she was requested to remain till Lionel called for her. After some daj's, a coach drove up to the door, and a lady carrying a bundle, came out, and asked to be she^vn to the apartment occupied by the Scotch lady. This was the wife of Lionel, who brought with her a number of specimens of tar- tan, which she exhibited to Margaret, requesting her to point out the kind she wore when she lived vrith Adam Hunter. This Margaret did ; and the next request made by the lady was, that Margaret should describe to her the shape of the garment, and the manner in which she wore it ; all of which iilargaret complied with, and the lady departed. In two days more, the same lady called with the garment made, and requested Margaret to put it on, and, with the child, accompany her to the place where she was going. Margaret complied, and they departed together in the coach. After driving for some little time, the coach stopped at a large house, into which they entered. The lad^- led Mar- garet and her child up a great many stairs, and round wind- ing passages, until they came to a room, where she was re- quested to remain. After waiting about ten minutes, a gentleman of a fair complexion entered, and shook her kindly by the hand, launching, at the same time, and with- out any explanation, into a quick spoken and confused speech, which formed a part of his salutation. " Why, woman, didna ye niak' some legal use o the bit (Mper ye got frae your braw lover. Sir Willoughby Somer- set ? Can it be possible that ye dinna ken, that, by the law o' your country, a promise o' marriage, coujiled wi' a — a — hem ! hem ! — a bairn, is, to a' intents and purposes, asgude a marriage as if it were celebrated wi' a' the solemnities o haly kirk .'' Bv my royal troth, ye hae been a blate and silljr TALES OF THE BORDERS. 407 lassie, whatever folk may say o' ye, praisin;^ ye for tiie Iii'ch nnd iiiiclitio honour ye made sae ineikle fashioa o', to save the life o' a ne'er-do-weel villain, wlia mined ye, and slew his lervant, and cheated the wuddy o' iiiy conntrie, tlionj;!i made o' pude aik, a mair siiitafde wife to him, God wnt, than the like o' ye. Uiit iat that alane — Icmims rcparnhit — ha ! ha ! ye ken naethinj; o' Latin, I f mcy, l)ut I meant only hy that flicht to tell ye tiiat ye will be revenj,'ed." While in the act of deliverinj;' tliis stranj,'e speech, the gentleman began to