■! 
 
CHRONICLES 
 
 / fy. 
 
 THE CANONGATE. 
 
 COMPLETE IN TWO VOLUMES. 
 
 BY TIIE AUTHOR OF “ WAVERLEY,” See. See. 
 
 SIC 1TUR AD ASTRA, 
 
 Motto of the Canongate Anns. 
 
 Uol. K. 
 
 WAVERLEY NOVELS. 39 . 
 
 BOSTON : 
 
 SAMUEL H. PARKER, NO. 164, WASHINGTON-STREET. 
 
 1828 . 
 
% 
 
 Waverley-Press — Boston. 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 1 /, ) 
 
 All who are acquainted with the early history of the 
 Italian stage are aware, that Arlechino is not, in his orig- 
 inal conception, a mere worker of marvels with his wood- 
 en sword, a jumper into and out of windows, as upon our 
 theatre, but, as his party-coloured jacket implies, a buf- 
 foon or clown, whose mouth, far from being eternally 
 closed as amongst us, is filled, like that of Touchstone, 
 with quips, and cranks, and witty devices, very often de- 
 livered extempore. It is not easy to guess how he became 
 possessed of his black vizard, which was anciently made 
 in the resemblance of the face of a cat ; but it seems that 
 the mask was essential to the performance of the character, 
 as will appear from the following theatrical anecdote : — 
 An actor on the Italian stage permitted at the Foire du 
 St. Germain, in Paris, was renowned for the wild, ven- 
 turous, and extravagant wit, the brilliant sallies and fortu- 
 nate repartees, with which he prodigally seasoned the 
 character of the party-coloured jester. Some critics, 
 whose ' good will towards a favourite actor was stronger 
 than their judgment, took occasion to remonstrate with 
 the successful performer on the subject of the grotesque 
 vizard. They went wilily to their purpose, observing 
 that his classical and attic wit, his delicate vein of humour, 
 his happy turn for dialogue, was rendered burlesque and 
 ludicrous by this unmeaning and bizarre disguise, and 
 that those attributes would become far more impressive, 
 if aided by the spirit of his eye and the expression of his 
 natural features. The actor’s vanity was easily so far 
 engaged as to induce him to make the experiment. He 
 played Harlequin barefaced, but was considered on all 
 hands as having made a total failure. He had lost the 
 
4 
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 audacity which a sense of incognito bestowed, and with it 
 all the reckless play of raillery which gave vivacity to his 
 original acting. He cursed his advisers, and resumed his 
 grotesque vizard ; but, it is said, without ever being able 
 to regain the careless and successful levity which the 
 consciousness of the disguise had formerly bestowed. 
 
 Perhaps the Author of Waverley is now about to incur 
 a risk of the same kind, and endanger his popularity by 
 having laid aside his incognito. It is certainly not a vol- 
 untary experiment, like that of Harlequin ; for it was my 
 original intention never to have avowed these works dur- 
 ing my lifetime, and the original manuscripts were careful- 
 ly preserved, (though by the care of others rather than 
 mine,) with the purpose of supplying the necessary 
 evidence of the truth when the period of announcing it 
 should arrive. But the affairs of my publishers having 
 unfortunately passed into a management different from 
 their own, I had no right any longer to rely upon secrecy 
 in that quarter ; and thus my mask, like my Aunt Dinah’s, 
 in Tristram Shandy, having begun to wax a little thread- 
 bare about the chin, it became time to lay it aside with a 
 good grace, unless I desired it should fall in pieces from 
 my face. 
 
 Yet I had not the slightest intention of choosing the 
 time and place in which the disclosure was finally made ; 
 nor was there any concert betwixt my learned and re- 
 spected friend Lord Meadowbank and myself upon that 
 occasion. It was, as the reader is probably aware, upon 
 the 23d February last, at a public meeting, called for 
 establishing a professional Theatrical Fund in Edinburgh, 
 that the communication took place. Just before we sat 
 down to table, Lord Meadowbank asked me, whether 
 I was still anxious to preserve my incognito on the subject 
 of what was called the Waverley Novels ? I did not im- 
 mediately see the purpose of his Lordship’s question, 
 although I certainly might have been led to infer it, and 
 replied, that the secret had now become known to so 
 many people that I was indifferent on the subject. Lord 
 Meadowbank was thus induced, while doing me the 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 5 
 
 great honour of proposing my health to the meeting, to 
 say something on the subject of these Novels, so strong]} 
 connecting them with me as the author, that, by remain- 
 ing silent, 1 must have stood convicted, either of the 
 actual paternity, or of the still greater crime of being 
 supposed willing to receive indirectly praise to which 1 
 had no just title. I thus found myself suddenly arid 
 unexpectedly placed in the confessional, and had only 
 time to recollect that I had been guided thither by a most 
 friendly hand, and could not, perhaps, find a better public 
 opportunity to lay down a disguise, which began to re- 
 semble tfraf of a detected masquerader. 
 
 I had therefore the task of avowing myself, to the nu- 
 merous and respectable company assembled, as the soli 
 and unaided author of these Novels of Waverley, the 
 paternity of which was likely atone time to have formed 
 a controversy of some celebrity. I now think it further 
 necessary to say, that while I take on myself all the merits 
 and demerits attending these compositions, I am bound to 
 acknowledge with gratitude, hints of subjects and legends 
 which I have received from various quarters, and have 
 occasionally used as a foundation of my fictitious com- 
 positions, or woven up with them in the shape of episodes, 
 l am bound, in particular, to acknowledge the unremitting 
 kindness of Mr. Joseph Train, supervisor of excise a: 
 Dumfries, to whose unwearied industry I have been in- 
 debted fof many curious traditions, and points of antiqua- 
 rian interest. It was Mr. Train who recalled to my 
 recollection the history of Old Mortality, although I my - 
 self had a personal interview with that celebrated wan- 
 derer so far back as about 1792, when I found him on 
 his usual task. He was then engaged in repairing the 
 gravestones of the Covenanters who had died while im- 
 prisoned in the Castle of Dunnottar, to which many of 
 them were committed prisoners at the period of Argyle’s 
 rising ; their place of confinement is still called the 
 Whigs’ Vault. Mr. Train, however, procured for me far 
 more extensive a n for ; • i w.i on concerning this singular person, 
 
 1* VOL, I. 
 
6 
 
 INTRODUCTION- 
 
 whose name was Patterson, than I had been able to acquire 
 during my short conversation with him. He was (as I may 
 have somewhere already stated,) a native of the parish 
 of Closeburn, in Dumfries-shire, and it is believed that 
 domestic affliction, as well as devotional feeling, induced 
 him to commence the wandering mode of life, which lie 
 pursued for a very long period. It is more than twenty 
 years since Robert Patterson’s death, which took place 
 on the high road near Lockerby, where he was found 
 exhausted and expiring. The white pony, the compan- 
 ion of his pilgrimage, was standing by the side of its 
 dying master ; the whole* furnishing a scene not unfitted 
 for the pencil. These particulars I had from Mr. Train. 
 
 Another debt, which I pay most willingly, is that which 
 I owe to an unknown correspondent (a lady), who favour- 
 ed me with the history of the upright and high principled 
 female, whom, in the Heart of Mid-Lothian, I have termed 
 Jeanie Deans. The circumstance of her refusing to save 
 her sister’s life by an act of perjury, and undertaking a 
 pilgrimage to London to obtain her pardon, are both re- 
 presented as true by my fair and obliging correspondent ; 
 and they led me to consider the possibility of rendering a 
 fictitious personage interesting by mere dignity of mind 
 and rectitude of principle, assisted by unpretending good 
 sense and temper, without any of the beauty, grace, tal- 
 ent, accomplishment, and wit, to which a heroine of ro- 
 mance is supposed to have a prescriptive right. If the 
 portrait was received with interest by the public, I am 
 conscious how much it was owing to the truth and force 
 of the original sketch, which I regret that I am unable to 
 present to the public, as it was written with much feeling 
 and spirit. 
 
 Old and odd books, and a considerable collection ol 
 family legends, formed another quarry, so ample, that it 
 was much more likely that the strength of the labourer 
 should be exhausted, than that materials should fail. I 
 may mention, for example’s sake, that the terrible catas- 
 trophe of the Bride of Lammermoor, actually occurred 
 in a Scottish family of rank. The female relative, by 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 7 
 
 whom the melancholy tale was communicated to me many 
 years since, was a near connexion of the family in which 
 the event happened, and always told it with an appear- 
 ance of melancholy mystery, which enhanced the interest. 
 She had known, in her youth, the brother who rode be- 
 fore the unhappy victim to the fatal altar, who, thotigh then 
 a mere boy, and occupied almost entirely with the gallantry 
 of his own appearance in the bridal procession, could not 
 but remark that the hand of his sister was moist, and cold 
 as that of a statue. It is unnecessary further to withdraw 
 the veil from this scene of family distress, nor, although 
 it occurred more than a hundred years since, might it be 
 altogether agreeable to the representatives of the families 
 concerned in the narrative. It may be proper to say, 
 that the events are imitated : but I had neither the means 
 nor intention of copying the manners, or tracing the char- 
 acters, of the persons concerned in the real story. 
 
 Indeed, I may here state generally, that although I 
 have deemed historical personages free subjects of delin- 
 eation, I have never on any occasion violated the respect 
 due to private life. It was indeed impossible that traits 
 proper to persons, both living and dead, with whom I have 
 had intercourse in society, should not have risen to my 
 pen in such works as Waverley, and those which followed 
 it. But I have always studied to generalize the portraits, 
 so that they should still seem, on the whole, the produc- 
 tions of fancy, though possessing some resemblance to 
 real individuals. Yet I must own my attempts have not 
 in this last particular been uniformly successful. There 
 are men whose characters are so peculiarly marked, that 
 the delineation of some leading and principal feature, in- 
 evitably places the .whole person before you in his indi- 
 viduality. Thus, the character of Jonathan Oldbuck, in 
 the Antiquary, was partly founded on that of an old friend 
 of my youth, to whom I am indebted for introducing me 
 to Shakspeare, and other invaluable favours ; but I thought 
 I had so completely disguised the likeness, that it could 
 not be recognized by any one now alive. I was mis- 
 taken, however, and indeed had endangered what I de- 
 
8 
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 sired should be considered as a secret ; for I afterwards 
 learned that a highly respectable gentleman, one of the 
 few surviving friends of my father, and an acute critic, 
 had said, upon the appearance of the work, that he was 
 now convinced who was the author of it, as he recognized, 
 in the Antiquary, traces of the character of a very inti- 
 mate friend of my father’s family. 
 
 I may here also notice, that the sort of exchange of 
 gallantry, which is represented as taking place betwixt 
 the Baron of Bradwardine and Colonel Talbot, is a lite- 
 ral fact. The real circumstances of the anecdote, alike 
 honourable to Whig and Tory, are these : — 
 
 Alexander Stewart of Invernahyle, — a name which I 
 cannot write without the warmest recollections of grati- 
 tude to the friend of my childhood, who first introduced 
 me to the Highlands, their traditions, and their manners, 
 — had been engaged actively in the troubles of 1745. 
 As he charged at the battle of Preston with his clan, the 
 Stewarts of Appine, he saw an officer of the opposite 
 army standing alone by a battery of four cannon, of which 
 he discharged three on the advancing Highlanders, and 
 then drew his sword. Invernahyle rushed on him, and 
 required him to surrender. “ Never to rebels !” was the 
 undaunted reply, accompanied with a longe, which the 
 Highlander received on his target ; but instead of using 
 his sword in cutting down his now defenceless antagon- 
 ist, he employed it in parrying the blow of a Lochaher 
 axe, aimed at the officer by the Miller, one of his own 
 followers, a grim-looking old Highlander, whom I re- 
 member to have seen. Thus overpowered, Lieutenant 
 Colonel Allan Whiteford, a gentleman of rank and con- 
 sequence, as well as a brave officer, gave up bis sword, 
 and with it his purse and watch, which Invernahyle ac- 
 cepted, to save them from his followers. After the affair 
 was over, Mr. Stewart sought out his prisoner, and they 
 were introduced to each other by the celebrated John 
 Roy Stewart, who acquainted Colonel Whiteford with the 
 quality of his captor, and made him aware of the neces- 
 sity of receiving back his property, which he was inclined 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 9 
 
 to leave in the hands into which it had fallen. So great 
 became the confidence established betwixt them, that In- 
 vernahyle obtained from the Chevalier his freedom upon 
 parole ; and soon afterwards, having been sent back to 
 the Highlands to raise men, he visited Colonel Whiteford 
 at his own house, and spent two happy days with him and 
 his Whig friends, without thinking, on either side, of the 
 civil war which was then raging. 
 
 When the battle of Culloden put an end to the hopes 
 of Charles Edward, Invernahyle, wounded and unable to 
 move, w r as borne from the field by the faithful zeal of his 
 retainers. But as he had been a distinguished Jacobite, 
 his family and property were exposed to the system of 
 vindictive destruction, too generally carried into execu- 
 tion through the country of the insurgents. It was now 
 Colonel Whiteford’s turn to exert himself, and he wearied 
 all the authorities, civil and military, with his solicitations 
 for pardon to the saver of his life, or at least for a pro- 
 tection for his wife and family. His applications were 
 for a long time unsuccessful : “ I was found with the mark 
 of the Beast upon me in every list,” was Invernahyle’s 
 expression. At length Colonel Whiteford applied to the 
 Duke of Cumberland, and urged his suit with every argu- 
 ment which he could think of. Being still repulsed, he 
 took His commission from his bosom, and, having said 
 something of his own and his family’s services to the 
 House of Hanover, begged to resign his situation in their 
 service, since he could not be permitted to show his grat- 
 itude to the person to whom he owed his life. The Duke, 
 struck with his earnestness, desired him to take up his 
 commission, and granted the protection required for the 
 family of Invernahyle. 
 
 The Chieftain himself lay concealed in a cave near his 
 own house, before which a small body of regular soldiers 
 was encamped. He could hear their muster-roll called 
 every morning, and their drums beat to quarters at night, 
 and not a change of the sentinels escaped him. As it 
 was suspected that he was lurking somewhere on the 
 property, his family were closely watched, and compelled 
 
10 
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 to use the utmost precaution in supplying him with food. 
 One of his daughters, a child of eight or ten years old, 
 was employed as the agent least likely to be suspected. 
 She was an instance among others, that a time of danger 
 and difficulty creates a premature sharpness of intellect. 
 She made herself acquainted among the soldiers, till she 
 became so familiar to them, that her motions escaped their 
 notice ; and her practice was, to stroll away into the 
 neighbourhood of the cave, and leave what slender supply 
 of food she carried for that purpose under some remark- 
 able stone, or the root of some tree, where her father 
 might, find it as he crept by night from his lurking-place. 
 Times became milder, and my excellent friend was re- 
 lieved from proscription by the Act of Indemnity. Such 
 is the interesting story which I have rather injured than 
 improved, by the manner in which it is told in Waverley. 
 
 This incident, with several other circumstances illus- 
 trating the Tales in question, was communicated by me 
 to my late lamented friend, William Erskine, (a Scottish 
 Judge, by the title of Lord Kinedder,) who afterwards re- 
 viewed with far too much partiality the Tales of my Land- 
 lord, for the Quarterly Review of January 1817. In the 
 same article, are contained other illustrations of the Nov- 
 els, with which I supplied my accomplished friend, who 
 took the trouble to write the review. The reader who is 
 desirous of such information, will find the original of Meg 
 Merrilees, and I believe of one or two other personages 
 of the same cast of character, in the article referred to. 
 
 I may also mention, that the tragic and savage circum- * 
 stances which are represented as preceding the birth of 
 Allan MacAulay, in the Legend of Montrose, really hap- 
 pened in the family of Stewart of Ardvoirloch. The wager 
 about the candlesticks, whose place was supplied by High- 
 land torch-bearers, was laid and won by one of the Mac- 
 Donalds of Keppoch. 
 
 There can be but little amusement in winnowing out 
 the few grains of truth which are contained in this mass of 
 empty fiction. I may, however, before dismissing the 
 subject, allude to the various localities which have been 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 11 
 
 affixed to some of the scenery introduced into these Nov- 
 els, by which, for example, Wolis-Hope is identified with 
 Fast-Castle in Berwickshire, — Tillietudlem with Dra- 
 phane in Clydesdale, — and the valley in the Monastery, 
 called Glendearg, with the dale of the Allan, above Lord 
 Somerville’s villa, near Melrose. 1 can only say, that, in 
 these and other instances, I had no purpose of describing 
 any particular local spot ; and the resemblance must 
 therefore be of that general kind which necessarily exists 
 betwixt scenes of the same character. The iron-bound 
 coast of Scotland affords upon its headlands and promon- 
 tories fifty such castles as WolPs-Hope ; every county has 
 a valley more or less resembling Glendearg ; and if castles 
 like Tillietudlem, or mansions like the Baron of Brad- 
 wardine’s, are now less frequently to be met with, it is 
 owing to the rage of indiscriminate destruction, which has 
 removed or ruined so many monuments of antiquity, when 
 they were not protected by their inaccessible situation. 
 
 The scraps of poetry which have been in most cases 
 tacked to the beginning of chapters in these Novels, are 
 sometimes quoted either from reading or from memory, 
 but, in the general case, are pure invention. I found it 
 too troublesome to turn to the collection of the British 
 Poets to discover apposite mottos, and, in the situation of 
 the theatrical mechanist, who, when the white paper which 
 represented his showier of snow was exhausted, continued 
 the storm by snowing brown, I drew on my memory as 
 long as I could, and, when that failed, eked it out with 
 invention. I believe that, in some cases, where actual 
 names are affixed to the supposed quotations, it would be 
 to little purpose to seek them in the works of the authors 
 referred to. 
 
 And now the reader may expect me, while in the con- 
 fessional, to explain the motives why I have so long per- 
 sisted in disclaiming the works of which I am now writing. 
 To this it would be difficult to give any other reply, save 
 that of Corporal Nym — It was the humour or caprice of 
 the time. I hope it will not be construed into ingratitude 
 to the public, to whose indulgence I have owed much more 
 
12 
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 than to any merit of my own, if I confess that I am, and 
 have been, more indifferent to success, or to failure, as 
 an author, than may be the case with others, who feel 
 more strongly the passion for literary fame, probably be- 
 cause they are justly conscious of a better title to it. It 
 was not until I had attained the age of thirty years that I 
 made any serious attempt at distinguishing myself as an 
 author ; and at that period, men’s hopes, desires, and 
 wishes, have usually acquired something of a decisive 
 character, and are not eagerly and easily diverted into a 
 new channel. When I made the discovery, — for to me 
 it was one, — that by amusing myself with composition, 
 which I felt a delightful occupation, I could also give 
 pleasure to others, and became aware that literary pur- 
 suits were likely to engage in future a considerable por- 
 tion of my time, I felt some alarm that I might acquire 
 those habits of jealousy and fretfulness which have les- 
 sened, and even degraded, the character of the children 
 of imagination, and rendered them, by petty squabbles and 
 mutual irritability, the laughing-stock of the people of the 
 world. I resolved, therefore, in this respect to guard my 
 breast (perhaps an unfriendly critic may add, my brow,) 
 with triple brass, and as much as possible to avoid rest- 
 ing my thoughts and wishes upon literary success, lest I 
 should endanger my own peace of mind and tranquillity 
 by literary failure. It would argue either stupid apathy, 
 or ridiculous affectation, to say that I have been insensi- 
 ble to the public applause, when I have been honoured 
 with its testimonies ; and still more highly do I prize the 
 invaluable friendships which some temporary popularity 
 has enabled me to form among those most distinguished 
 by talents and genius, and which I venture to hope now 
 rest upon a basis more firm than the circumstances which 
 gave rise to them. Yet feeling all these advantages as a 
 man ought to do, and must do, I may say, with truth and 
 confidence, that I have tasted of the intoxicating cup with 
 moderation, and that I have never, either in conversation 
 or correspondence, encouraged discussions respecting my 
 own literary pursuits. On the contrary, I have usually 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 13 
 
 found such topics, even when introduced from motives 
 most flattering to myself, rather embarrassing and dis- 
 agreeable. 
 
 I have now frankly told my motives for concealment, 
 so far as I am conscious of having any, and the public 
 will forgive the egotism of the detail, as what is necessa- 
 rily connected with it. The author, so long and loudly 
 called for, has appeared on the stage, and made his obei- 
 sance to the audience. Thus far his conduct is a mark 
 of respect. To linger in their presence would be in- 
 trusion. 
 
 I have only to repeat, that I avow myself in print, as 
 formerly in words, the sole and unassisted author of all 
 the Novels published as the composition of the “ Author 
 of Waverley.” I do this without shame, for lam uncon- 
 scious that there is anything in their composition which 
 deserves reproach, either on the score of religion or mo- 
 rality ; and without any feeling of exultation, because, 
 whatever may have been their temporary success, I am 
 well aware how much their reputation depends upon the 
 caprice of fashion ; and I have already mentioned the 
 precarious tenure by which it is held, as a reason for 
 displaying no great avidity in grasping at the possession. 
 
 I ought to mention, before concluding, that twenty 
 persons at least were, either from intimacy or from the 
 confidence which circumstances rendered necessary, par- 
 ticipant of this secret ; and as there was no instance, to 
 my knowledge, of any one of the number breaking the 
 confidence required from them, I am the more obliged 
 to them, because the slight and trivial character of the 
 mystery was not qualified to inspire much respect in those 
 intrusted with it. 
 
 As for the work which follows, it was meditated, and 
 in part printed, long before the avowal of the novels took 
 place, and originally commenced with a declaration that 
 it was neither to have introduction nor preface of any 
 kind. This long proem, prefixed to a work intended not 
 to have any, may, however, serve to show how human 
 2 VOL. i. 
 
14 
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 purposes, in the most trifling as well as the most impor- 
 tant affairs, are liable to be controlled by the course of 
 events. Thus, we begin to cross a strong river with our 
 eyes and our resolution fixed on the point of the opposite 
 shore, on which we purpose to land ; but, gradually giv- 
 ing way to the torrent, are glad, by the aid perhaps of 
 branch or bush, to extricate ourselves at some distant and 
 perhaps dangerous landing-place, much farther down the 
 stream than that on which we had fixed our intentions. 
 
 Hoping that the Courteous Reader will afford to a 
 known and familiar acquaintance some portion of the 
 favour which he extended to a disguised candidate for 
 his applause, I beg leave to subscribe myself his obliged 
 humble servant, 
 
 WALTER SCOTT. 
 
 Abbotsford, October 1, 1827. 
 
CHRONICLES 
 
 OF 
 
 THE CANONGATE. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Sic itur ad astra. 
 
 “ This is the path to heaven.” Such is the ancient 
 motto attached to the armorial bearings of the Canongate, 
 and which is inscribed, with greater or less propriety, upon 
 all the public buildings, from the church to the pillory, in 
 the ancient quarter of Edinburgh, which bears, or rather 
 once bore, the same relation to the Good Town that 
 Westminster does to London, being still possessed of the 
 palace of the sovereign, as it formerly was dignified by 
 the residence of the principal nobility and gentry. I 
 may, therefore, with some propriety, put the same motto 
 at the head of the literary undertaking by which I hope 
 to illustrate the hitherto undistinguished name of Chrystal 
 Croftangry. 
 
 The public may desire to know something of an author 
 who pitches at such height his ambitious expectations. 
 The gentle reader, therefore — for 1 am much of Captain 
 Bobadil’s humour, and could to no other extend myself 
 so far — th e gentle reader, then, will be pleased to under- 
 
16 
 
 CHRONICLES OF 
 
 stand, that 1 am a Scottish gentleman of the old school, 
 with a fortune, temper, and person, rather the worse for 
 wear. I have known the world for these forty years, 
 having written myself man nearly since that period — and 
 1 do not think it is much mended. But this is an opinion 
 which I keep to myself when 1 am among younger folk, 
 for I recollect, in my youth, quizzing the Sexagenarians 
 who carried back their ideas of a perfect state of society 
 to the days of laced coats and triple ruffles, and some of 
 them to the blood and blows of the Forty-five : There- 
 fore I am cautious in exercising the right of censorship, 
 which is supposed to be acquired by men arrived at, or 
 approaching, the mysterious period of life, when the 
 numbers of seven and nine multiplied into each other, 
 form what sages have termed the Grand Climacteric. 
 
 Of the earlier part of my life it is only necessary to 
 say, that I swept the boards of the Parliament-House 
 with the skirts of my gown for the usual number of years 
 during which young Lairds were in my time expected to 
 keep term — got no fees — laughed, and made others 
 laugh — drank claret at Bayle’s, Fortune’s, and Walker’s 
 — and eat oysters in the Covenant Close. 
 
 Becoming my own master, i flung my gown at the bar- 
 keeper, and commenced gay man on my own account. 
 In Edinburgh, I ran into all the expensive society which 
 the place then afforded. When I went to my house in 
 the shire of Lanark, I emulated to the utmost the expen- 
 ses of men of large fortune, and had my hunters, my first-* 
 rate pointers, my game-cocks, and feeders. 1 can m6re 
 easily forgive myself for these follies, than for others of a 
 still more blameable kind, so indifferently cloaked over 
 that my poor mother thought herself obliged to leave my 
 habitation, and betake herself to a small inconvenient 
 jointure-house, which she occupied till her death. I 
 think, however, I was not exclusively to blame in this 
 separation, and I believe my mother afterwards condemn- 
 ed herself for being too hasty. Thank God, the adver- 
 sity which destroyed the means of continuing my dissipa- 
 tion, restored me to the affections of my surviving parent. 
 
THE CANONGATE. 
 
 17 
 
 My course of life could not last. I ran too fast to run 
 long ; and when I would have checked my career, 1 was 
 perhaps too near the brink of the precipice. Some mis- 
 haps 1 prepared by my own folly, others came upon me 
 unawares. I put my estate out to nurse to a fat man of 
 business, who smothered the babe he should have brought 
 back to me in health and strength, and, in dispute with 
 this honest gentleman, 1 found, like a skilful general, that 
 my position would be most judiciously assumed by taking 
 it up near the Abbey of Holy rood. It was then I first 
 became acquainted with the quarter, which my little 
 work will, I hope, render immortal, and grew familiar 
 with those magnificent wilds, through which the Kings of 
 Scotland once chased the dark-brown deer, but which 
 were chiefly recommended to me in those days, by their 
 being inaccessible to those metaphysical persons, whom 
 the law of the neighbouring country terms Joe and Rich- 
 ard Doe. 
 
 Dire was the strife betwixt my quondam doer and my- 
 self ; during which my motions were circumscribed, like 
 those of some conjured demon, within a circle, which, 
 “ beginning at the northern gate of the King’s Park, 
 thence running northways, is bounded on the left by the 
 King’s garden-wall, and the gutter, or kennel, in a line 
 wherewith it crosses the High Street to the Water-gate, 
 and passing through the sewer, is bounded by the walls of 
 the Tennis-court and Physic-garden, he. Then it fol- 
 lows the walls of the church-yard, joins the north-west 
 wall of St. Ann’s Yards, and going east to the clack mill- 
 house, turns southward to the turnstile in the King’s park- 
 wall, and includes the whole King’s Park within the Sanc- 
 tuary.” 
 
 These limits, which I abridge from the accurate Mait- 
 land, once marked the Girth, or Asylum, belonging to 
 the Abbey of Holy rood, and which, being still an appen- 
 dage to the royal palace, has retained the privilege of an 
 asylum for civil debt. One would think the space suffi- 
 ciently extensive for a man to stretch his limbs in, as, 
 
 2* VOL. i. 
 
18 
 
 CHRONICLES OF 
 
 besides a reasonable proportion of level ground, (con- 
 sidering that the scene lies in Scotland,) it includes within 
 its precincts the mountain of Arthur’s Seat, and the rocks 
 and pasture land called Salisbury Crags. But yet it is 
 inexpressible how, after a certain time had elapsed, 1 used 
 to long for the Sunday, which permitted me to extend my 
 walk without limitation. During the other six days of 
 the week 1 felt a sickness of heart, which, but for the 
 speedy approach of the hebdomadal day of liberty, I could 
 hardly have endured. I experienced the impatience of 
 a mastiff, who tugs in vain to extend the limits which his 
 chain permits. 
 
 Day after day 1 have walked by the side of the kennel 
 which divides the Sanctuary from the unprivileged part 
 of the Canongate ; and though the month was July, and 
 the scene was the old town of Edinburgh, I preferred it 
 to the fresh air and verdant turf which I might have en- 
 joyed in the King’s Park, or to the cool and solemn gloom 
 of the portico which surrounds the palace. To an indif- 
 ferent person either side of the gutter would have seemed 
 much the same — the houses equally mean, the children 
 as ragged and dirty, the carmen as brutal, the whole form- 
 ing the same picture of low life in a deserted and impov- 
 erished quarter of a large city. But to me the gutter, 
 or kennel, was what the brook Kidron was to Shimei ; 
 death was denounced against him should he cross it, 
 doubtless because it was known to his wisdom who pro- 
 nounced the doom, that from that time the devoted man’s 
 desire to transgress the precept would become irresistible, 
 and he would be sure to draw down on his head the penalty 
 which he had already justly incurred by cursing the an- 
 ointed of God. For my part, all Elysium seemed open- 
 ing on tiie other side of the kennel, and I envied the little 
 blackguards, who, stopping the current with their little 
 dam-dikes of mud, had a right, during the operation, to 
 stand on either side of the nasty puddle which best pleas- 
 ed them. I was so childish as even to make an occasional 
 excursion across, were it only for a few yards, and felt 
 the triumph of a school- boy, who, trespassing in an orch- 
 
THE CANONGATE. 
 
 19 
 
 ard, hurries back again with a fluttering sensation of joy 
 and terror, betwixt the pleasure of having executed his 
 purpose, and the fear of being taken or discovered. 
 
 1 have sometimes asked myself, what I should have 
 done in case of actual imprisonment, since I could not 
 bear without impatience a restriction which is compar- 
 atively a mere trifle ; but I really could never answer the 
 question to my own satisfaction. ’ 1 have all my life hated 
 those treacherous expedients called mezzo-termini , and 
 it is possible with this disposition I might have endured 
 more patiently an absolute privation of liberty, than the 
 more modified restrictions to which my residence in the 
 Sanctuary at this period subjected me. If, however, the 
 feelings 1 then experienced were to increase in intensity 
 according to the difference between a jail and my actual 
 condition, I must have hanged myself, or pined to death ; 
 there could have been no other alternative. 
 
 Amongst many companions who forgot and neglected me 
 of course, when my difficulties seemed to be inextricable, 
 1 had one true friend ; and that friend was a barrister, 
 who knew the laws of his country well, and, tracing them 
 up to the spirit of equity and justice in which they origin- 
 ate, had repeatedly prevented, by his benevolent and manly 
 exertions, the triumphs of selfish cunning over simplicity 
 and folly. He undertook my cause, with the assistance 
 of a solicitor of a character similar to his own. My quon- 
 dam doer had intrenched himself chin-deep among legal 
 trenches, hornworks, and covered ways ; but my two 
 protectors shelled him out of his defences, and I was at 
 length a free man, at liberty to go or stay wheresoever 
 my mind listed. 
 
 I left my lodging as hastily as if it had been a pest- 
 house ; I did not even stop to receive some change that 
 was due to me on settling with my landlady, and I saw 
 the poor woman stand at her door looking after my pre- 
 cipitate flight, and shaking her head as she wrapped the 
 silver which she was counting for me in a separate piece 
 of paper, apart from the store in her own moleskin purse. 
 An honest Highlandwoman was Janet MacEvoy, and 
 
20 
 
 CHRONICLES OF 
 
 deserved a greater remuneration, had I possessed the 
 power of bestowing it. But my eagerness of delight was 
 too extreme to pause for explanation with Janet. On I 
 pushed through the groups of children, of whose sports I 
 had been so often a lazy lounging spectator. I sprung 
 over the gutter as if it had been the fatal Styx, and I a 
 ghost, which, eluding Pluto’s authority, was making its 
 escape from Limbo lake. My friend had difficulty to 
 restrain me from running like a madman up the street ; 
 and in spite of his kindness and hospitality, which sooth- 
 ed me for a day or two, I was not quite happy until I 
 found myself aboard of a Leith smack, and, standing 
 down the Frith with a fair wind, might snap my fingers 
 at the retreating outline of Arthur’s Seat, to the vicinity 
 of which I had been so long confined. 
 
 It is not my purpose to trace my future progress through 
 life. 1 had extricated myself, or rather had been freed 
 by my friends, from the brambles and thickets of the law, 
 but, as befell the sheep in the fable, a great part of my 
 fleece was left behind me. Something remained, how- 
 ever ; I was in the season for exertion, and, as my good 
 mother used to say, there was always life for living folk. 
 Stern necessity gave my manhood that prudence which 
 my youth was a stranger to. I faced danger, I endured 
 fatigue, I sought foreign climates, and proved that I belong- 
 ed to the nation which is proverbially patient of labour 
 and prodigal of life. Independence, like liberty to Vir- 
 gil’s shepherd, came late, but came at last, with no great 
 affluence in its train, but bringing enough to support a 
 decent appearance for the rest of my life, and to induce 
 cousins to be civil, and gossips to say, “ I winder who 
 old Croft will make his heir c ? he must have picked up 
 something, and I should not be surprised if it prove more 
 than folk think of.” 
 
 My first impulse when I returned home was to rush to 
 the house of my benefactor, the only man who had in my 
 distress interested himself in my behalf. He w T as a snuff- 
 taker, and it had been the pride of my heart to save the 
 ipsa corpora of the first score of guineas I could hoard, 
 
THE CANONGATE. 
 
 21 
 
 and to have them converted into as tasteful a snuff-box as 
 Rundell and Bridge could devise. This I had thrust for 
 security into the breast of my waistcoat, while, impatient 
 to transfer it to the person for whom it was destined, I 
 
 hastened to his house in square. When the front 
 
 of the house became visible, a feeling of alarm checked 
 me. I had been long absent from Scotland, my friend 
 was some years older than I ; he* might have been called 
 to the congregation of the just. I paused, and gazed on 
 the house, as if I had hoped to form some conjecture from 
 the outward appearance concerning the state of the fam- 
 ily within. 1 know not how it was, but the lower win- 
 dows being all closed and no one stirring, my sinister 
 forebodings were rather strengthened. 1 regretted now 
 that I had not made inquiry before I left the inn where I 
 alighted from the mail-coach. But it was too late ; so 
 I hurried on, eager to know the best or the worst which 
 I could learn. 
 
 The brass-plate bearing my friend’s name and desig- 
 nation was still on the door, and when the door was opened, 
 the old domestic appeared a good deal older I thought 
 than he ought naturally to have looked, considering the pe- 
 riod of my absence. “ Is Mr. at home 9” said I, 
 
 pressing forward. 
 
 “ Yes, sir,” said John, placing himself in opposition to 
 my entrance, “ he is at home, but ” 
 
 “ But he is not in,” said I. “ I remember your phrase 
 of old, John. Come, I will step into his room, and leave 
 a line for him.” 
 
 John was obviously embarrassed by my familiarity. I 
 was some one, he saw, w-hom he ought to recollect, at 
 the same time it was evident he remembered nothing 
 about me. 
 
 “ Ay, sir, my master is in, and in his own room, but — ” 
 
 I would not hear him out, but passed before him towards 
 the well-known apartment. A young lady came out of 
 the room a little disturbed, as it seemed, and said, “ John, 
 what is the matter V 5 
 
22 
 
 CHRONICLES OF 
 
 “ A gentleman. Miss Nelly, that insists on seeing my 
 master.” 
 
 “ A very old and deeply indebted friend,” said I, 
 “ that ventures to press myself on my much-respected 
 benefactor on my return from abroad.” 
 
 “ Alas, sir,” replied she, “ my uncle would be happy 
 to see you, but” 
 
 At this moment, something was heard within the apart- 
 ment like the falling of a plate, or glass, and immediately 
 after my friend’s voice called angrily and eagerly on his 
 niece. She entered the room hastily, and so did I. But 
 it was to see a spectacle, compared with which that of 
 my benefactor stretched on his bier would have been a 
 happy one. 
 
 The easy-chair filled with cushions, the extended 
 limbs swathed in flannel, the wide wrapping-gown and 
 night-cap, showed illness ; but the dimmed eye, once so 
 replete with living fire, the blabber lip, whose dilation and 
 compression used to give such character U> his animated 
 countenance, — the stammering tongue, that once poured 
 forth such floods of masculine eloquence, and had often 
 swayed the opinion of the sages whom he addressed, — 
 all these sad symptoms evinced that my friend was in the 
 melancholy condition of those in whom the principle of 
 animal life has unfortunately survived that of mental in- 
 telligence. He gazed a moment at me, but then seemed 
 insensible of my presence, and went on — he, once the 
 most courteous and well-bred — to babble unintelligible 
 but violent reproaches against his niece and servant, be- 
 cause he himself had dropped a tea-cup in attempting to 
 place it on a table at his elbow. His eyes caught a 
 momentary fire from his irritation ; but he struggled in 
 vain for words to express himself adequately, as, looking 
 from his servant to his niece, and then to the table, he 
 laboured to explain that they had placed it (though it 
 touched his chair) at too great a distance from him. 
 
 The young person, who had naturally a resigned Ma- 
 donna-like expression of countenance, listened to his im- 
 patient chiding with the most humble submission, checked 
 
TIIE CANONGATE. 
 
 23 
 
 the servant, whose less delicate feelings would have en- 
 tered on his justification, and gradually, by the sweet and 
 soft tones of her voice, soothed to rest the spirit of cause- 
 less irritation. 
 
 She then cast a look towards me, which expressed, 
 “ You see all that remains of him whom you call friend.” 
 It seemed also to say, “ Your longer presence here can 
 only be distressing to us all.” 
 
 “ Forgive me, young lady,” I said, as well as tears 
 would permit; — “ I am a person deeply obliged to your 
 uncle. My name is Croftangry.” 
 
 “ Lord ! and that I should not hae minded ye, Maister 
 Croftangry,” said the servant. “ Ay, I mind my master 
 had muckle fash about your job. I hae heard him order 
 in fresh candles as midnight chappit, and till’t again. In- 
 deed, ye had ay his gude word, Mr. Croftangry, for a* 
 that folks said about you.” 
 
 “ Hold your tongue, John,” said the lady, somewhat 
 angrily ; and then continued, addressing herself to me, 
 “ I am sure, sir, you must be sorry to see my uncle in this 
 state. I know you are his friend. I have heard him 
 mention your name, and wonder he never heard from 
 you.” — A new cut this, and it went to my heart. But 
 she continued, “ I really do not know if it is right that 
 any should — If my uncle should know you, which I scarce 
 think possible, he would be much affected, and the doctor 
 
 says that any agitation But here comes Dr. * to 
 
 give his own opinion. 
 
 Dr. entered. I had left him a middle-aged man ; 
 
 he was now an elderly one ; but still the same benevo- 
 lent Samaritan, who went about doing good, and thought 
 the blessings of the poor as good a recompense of his pro- 
 fessional skill as the gold of the rich. 
 
 He looked at me with surprise, but the young lady 
 said a word of introduction, and I, who was known to the 
 doctor formerly, hastened to complete it. He recollected 
 me perfectly, and intimated that he was well acquainted 
 with the reasons l had for being deeply interested in the 
 fate of his patient. He gave me a very melancholy ac- 
 
24 
 
 CHRONICLES OF 
 
 count of my poor friend, drawing me for that purpose a 
 little apart from the lady. “ The light of life,” he said, 
 “ was trembling in the socket ; he scarcely expected it 
 would ever leap up even into a momentary flash, but 
 more was impossible.” He then stepped towards his 
 patient, and put some questions, to which the poor invalid, 
 though he seemed to recognize the friendly and familiar 
 voice, answered only in a faltering and uncertain manner. 
 
 The young lady, in her turn, had drawn back when 
 the doctor approached his patient. “ You see how it is 
 with him,” said the doctor, addressing me ; “ I have 
 heard our poor friend, in one of the most eloquent of his 
 pleadings, give a description of this very disease, which 
 he compared to the tortures inflicted by Mezentius, w r hen 
 he chained the dead to the living. The soul, he said, is 
 imprisoned in its dungeon of flesh, and though retaining 
 its natural and unalienable properties, can no more exert 
 them than the captive inclosed within a prison-house can 
 act as a free agent. Alas ! to see him , who could so well 
 describe what this malady was in others, a prey himself 
 to its infirmities ! I shall never forget the solemn tone of 
 expression with which he summed up the incapacities of 
 the paralytic, — the deafened ear, the dimmed eye, the 
 crippled limbs, — in the noble words of Juvenal — 
 
 *' omni 
 
 Membrorum damno major, dementia, quae nec 
 
 Nomina servorum, nec vultum agnoscit amici.’ ” 
 
 As the physician repeated these lines, a flash of intel- 
 ligence seemed to revive in the invalid’s eye — sunk again 
 — again struggled, and he spoke more intelligibly than 
 before, and in the tone of one eager to say something 
 which he felt would escape him unless said instantly. 
 “ A question of death-bed, a question of death-bed, doc- 
 tor — a reduction ex capite lecti — Withering against Wili- 
 bus — about the morbus sonticus. I pleaded the cause 
 for the pursuer — I, and — and — Why, I shall forget my 
 own name — J, and — he that was the wittiest and the best- 
 humoured man living ” 
 
THE CANON GATE. 
 
 25 
 
 The description enabled the doctor to fill up the blank, 
 and the patient joyfully repeated the name suggested. 
 
 “ Ay, ay,” he said, “just he — Harry — poor Harry” 
 
 The light in his eye died away, and he sunk back in his 
 easy-chair. 
 
 “ You have now seen more of our poor friend Mr. 
 Croftangry,” said the physician, “ than I dared venture 
 to promise you ; and now 1 must take my professional 
 
 authority on me, and ask you to retire. Miss will, 
 
 I am sure, let you know if a moment should by any chance 
 occur when her uncle can see you.” 
 
 What could I do I gave my card to the young lady, 
 and, taking my offering from my bosom — “ If my poor 
 friend,” 1 said, with accents as broken almost as his own, 
 “ should ask where this came from, name me ; and say 
 from the most obliged and most grateful man alive. Say, 
 the gold of which it is composed was saved by grains at 
 a time, and was hoarded with as much avarice as ever 
 was a miser’s : — to bring it here 1 have come a thousand 
 miles, and now, alas, I find him thus !” 
 
 I laid the box on the table, and was retiring with a lin- 
 gering step. The eye of the invalid was caught by it, 
 as that of a child by a glittering toy, and with infantine 
 impatience he faltered out inquiries at his niece. With 
 gentle mildness she repeated again and again who I was, 
 and why I came, &c. I w r as about to turn, and hasten 
 from a scene so painful, when the physician laid his hand 
 on my sleeve — “ Stop,” he said, “ there is a change.” 
 There was indeed, and a marked one. A faint glow 
 spread over his pallid features — they seemed to gain the 
 look of intelligence which belongs to vitality — his eye 
 once more kindled — his lip coloured — and drawing him- 
 self up out of the listless posture he had hitherto main- 
 tained, he rose without assistance. The doctor and the 
 servant ran to give him their support. He waved them 
 aside, and they were contented to place themselves in 
 such a position behind as might ensure against accident, 
 3 VOL. 1. 
 
26 
 
 CHRONICLES OF 
 
 should his newly-acquired strength decay as suddenly as 
 it had revived. 
 
 “ My dear Croftangry,” he said, in the tone of kind- 
 ness of other days, “ I am glad to see you returned — 
 You find me but poorly — but my little niece here and 
 
 Dr. — are very kind — God bless you, my dear 
 
 friend ! we shall not meet again till we meet in a better 
 world.” 
 
 I pressed his extended hand to my lips — I pressed it 
 to my bosom — I would fain have flung myself on rny 
 knees ; but the doctor, leaving the patient to the young 
 lady and the servant, who wheeled forward his chair, and 
 were replacing him in it, hurried me out of the room. 
 “ My dear sir,” he said, “ you ought to be satisfied ; you 
 have seen our poor invalid more like his former self than 
 he has been for months, or than he may be perhaps again 
 until all is over. The whole Faculty could not have as- 
 sured such an interval — 3 must see whether anything can 
 be derived from it to improve the general health — Pray, 
 begone.” The last argument hurried me from the spot, 
 agitated by a crowd of feelings, all of them painful. 
 
 When I had overcome the shock of this great disap- 
 pointment, I renewed gradually my acquaintance with one 
 or two old companions, who, though of infinitely less in- 
 terest to my feelings than my unfortunate friend, served to 
 relieve the pressure of actual solitude, and who were not 
 perhaps the less open to my advances, that I was a bach- 
 elor somewhat stricken in years, newly arrived from for- 
 eign parts, and certainly independent, if not wealthy. 
 
 1 was considered as a tolerable subject of speculation 
 by some, and 1 could not be burdensome to any : I was 
 therefore, according to the ordinary rule of Edinburgh 
 hospitality, a welcome guest in several respectable fami- 
 lies ; but I found no one who could replace the loss I had 
 sustained in my best friend and benefactor. I wanted 
 something more than mere companionship could give me, 
 and where was I to look for it 9 — among the scattered 
 
THE CANONGATE. 
 
 27 
 
 remnants of those that had been my gay friends of yore ? 
 — alas ! 
 
 Many a lad I loved was dead, 
 
 And many a lass grown old. 
 
 Besides, all community of ties between us had ceased to 
 exist, and such of my former friends as were still in the 
 world, held their life in a different tenor from what 1 did. 
 
 Some had become misers, and \vere as eager in saving 
 sixpence as ever they had been in spending a guinea. 
 Some had turned agriculturists — their talk was of oxen, 
 and they were only fit companions for graziers. Some 
 stuck to cards, and though no longer deep gamblers, rather 
 played small game than sat out. This 1 particularly de- 
 spised. The strong impulse of gaming, alas ! 1 had felt 
 in my time — it is as intense as it is criminal ; but it pro- 
 duces excitation and interest, and I can conceive how it 
 should become a passion with strong and powerful minds. 
 But to dribble away life in exchanging bits of painted 
 pasteboard round a green table, for the piddling concern 
 of a few shillings, can only be excused in folly or super- 
 annuation. It is like riding on a rocking-horse, where 
 your utmost exertion never carries you a foot forward ; 
 it is a kind of mental tread-mill, where you are perpetu- 
 ally climbing, but can never rise an inch. From these 
 hints, my readers will perceive I am incapacitated for one 
 of the pleasures of old age, which, though not mentioned 
 by Cicero, is not the least frequent resource in the present 
 day — the club-room, and the snug hand at whist. 
 
 To return to my old companions : Some frequented 
 public assemblies, like the ghost of Beau Nash, or any 
 other beau of half a century back, thrust aside by titter- 
 ing youth, and pitied by those of their own age. In fine, 
 some went into devotion, as the French term it, and others, 
 I fear, went to the devil ; a few found resources in sci- 
 ence and letters ; one or two turned philosophers in a 
 small way, peeped into microscopes, and became familiar 
 with the fashionable experiments of the day. Some took 
 to reading, and I was one of them. 
 
28 
 
 CHRONICLES OF 
 
 Some grains of repulsion towards the society around 
 me — some painful recollections of early faults and follies 
 — some touch of displeasure with living mankind, inclin- 
 ed me rather to a study of antiquities, and particularly 
 those of my own country. The reader, if 1 can prevail 
 on myself to continue the present work, will probably be 
 able to judge, in the course of it, whether I have made 
 any useful progress in the study of the olden times. 
 
 1 owed this turn of study, in part, to the conversation 
 of my kind man of business, Mr. Fairscribe, whom I 
 mentioned as having seconded the efforts of my invalua- 
 ble friend, in bringing the cause on which my liberty and 
 the remnant of my property depended, to a favourable 
 decision. He had given me a most kind reception on my 
 return. He was too much engaged in his profession for 
 me to intrude on him often, and perhaps his mind was 
 too much trammelled with its details to permit his being 
 willingly withdrawn from them. In short, he was not a 
 
 person of my poor friend ’s expanded spirit, and 
 
 rather a lawyer of the ordinary class of formalists, but a 
 most able and excellent man. When my estate was sold, 
 he retained some of the older title-deeds, arguing, from 
 his own feelings, that they would be of more consequence 
 to the heir of the old family than to the new purchaser. 
 And when I returned to Edinburgh, and found him still 
 in the exercise of the profession to which he was an hon- 
 our, he sent to my lodgings the old family-hible, which lay 
 always on my father’s table, two or three other mouldy 
 volumes, and a couple of sheep-skin bags, full of parch- 
 ments and papers, whose appearance was by no means 
 inviting. 
 
 The next time 1 shared Mr. Fairscribe’s hospitable 
 dinner, I failed not to return him due thanks for his kind- 
 ness, which acknowledgment, indeed, I proportioned 
 rather to the idea which I knew he entertained of the 
 value of such things, than to the interest with which I 
 myself regarded them. But the conversation turning on 
 my family, who were old proprietors in the Upper Ward 
 of Clydesdale, gradually excited some interest in my 
 
THE CANONGATE. 
 
 29 
 
 mind ; and when I retired to my solitary parlour, the first 
 thing I did was to look for a pedigree, or sort of history 
 of the family, or House of Croftangry, once of that Ilk, 
 latterly of Glentanner. The discoveries which I made 
 shall enrich the next chapter. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 11 What’s property, dear Swift ? I see it alter 
 From you to me, from me to Peter Walter. 
 
 Pope. 
 
 “ Croftangry — Croftandrew — Croftanridge — Croft- 
 andgrey — for sa rnony wise hath the name been spellit — 
 is weel known to be ane house of grit antiquity ; and it 
 is said, that King Milcolumb, or Malcolm, being the first 
 of our Scottish princes quha removit across the Firth of 
 Forth, did reside and occupy ane palace at Edinburgh, 
 and had there ane valziant man, who did him man-service, 
 by keeping the croft, or corn-land, which was tilled for 
 the convenience of the King’s household, and was thence 
 callit Croft-an-ri, that is to say, the King his croft ; quhilk 
 place, though now coverit with biggings, is to this day 
 called Croftangry, and lyeth near to the royal palace. 
 And whereas that some of those who bear this auld and 
 honourable name may take scorn that it ariseth from the 
 tilling of the ground, quhilk men account a slavish occu- 
 pation, yet we ought to honour the pleugh and spade, 
 seeing we all derive our being from our father Adam, 
 wdiose lot it became to cultivate the earth, in respect of 
 his fall and transgression. 
 
 “ Also we have witness, as weel in holy writt as in 
 profane history, of the honour in quhilk husbandrie was 
 held of old, and how prophets have been taken from the 
 pleugh, and great captains raised up to defend their ain 
 3 * VOL. I. 
 
30 
 
 CHRONICLES OF 
 
 countries, sic as Cincinnatus, and the like, who fought not 
 the common enemy with the less valiancy that their arms 
 had been exercized in balding the stilts of the pleugh, 
 and their bellicose skill in driving of yauds and owsen. 
 
 “ Likewise there are sindry honourable families, quhilk 
 are now of our native Scottish nobility, and have clombe 
 higher up the brae of preferment than what this house of 
 Croftangry hath done, quhilk shame not to carry in their 
 warlike shield and insignia of dignity, the tools and imple- 
 ments the quhilk their first forefathers exercised in labour- 
 ing the croft-rig, or, as the poet Virgilius calleth it elo- 
 quently, in subduing the soil. And no doubt this ancient 
 house of Croftangry, while it continued to be called of 
 that Ilk, produced many worshipful and famous patriots, 
 of quhom I now prsetermit the names ; it being my pur- 
 pose, if God shall spare me life for sic ane pious officium, 
 or duty, to resume the first part of my narrative touching 
 the House of Croftangry, when I can set down at length 
 the evidents, and historical witness anent the facts which 
 J shall allege, seeing that words, when they are unsup- 
 ported by proofs, are like seed sown on the naked rocks, 
 or like an house biggit on the flitting and faithless sands.” 
 
 Here I stopped to draw breath ; for the style of my 
 grandsire, the inditer of this goodly matter, was rather 
 lengthy, as our American friends say. Indeed, I reserve 
 the rest of the piece until I can obtain admission to the 
 Bannatyne Club, when I propose to throw off an edition, 
 limited according to the rules of that erudite Society, with 
 a fac-simile of the manuscript, emblazonry of the family 
 arms, surrounded by their quartering, and a handsome 
 disclamation of family pride, with Hac nos novimus esse 
 nihil , or Vix ea nostra voco. 
 
 In the meantime, to speak truth, I cannot but suspect, 
 that though my worthy ancestor puffed vigorously to swell 
 up the dignity of his family, we had never, in fact, risen 
 above the rank of middling proprietors. The estate of 
 Glentanner came to us by the intermarriage of my ances- 
 tor with Tib Sommeril, termed by the southrons Som-* 
 merville, a daughter of that noble house, but I fear on 
 
THE CANONGATE. 
 
 31 
 
 what my great-grandsire calls “ the wrong side of the 
 blanket.” Her husband, Gilbert, was killed fighting, as 
 the Inquisitio post mortem has it, “ sub vexillo regis , apud 
 prcelium juxta Branxton , lie Floddenfield .” 
 
 We had our share in other national misfortunes — were 
 forfeited, like Sir John Colville of the Dale, for following 
 our betters to the field of Langside ; and in the conten- 
 tious times of the last Stuarts, we were severely fined for 
 harbouring and resetting intercommuned ministers ; and 
 narrowly escaped giving a martyr to the Calendar of the 
 Covenant, in the person of the father of our family his- 
 torian. He “ took the sheaf from the mare,” however, 
 as the MS. expresses it, and agreed to accept of the 
 terms of pardon offered by government, and sign the bond, 
 in evidence he would give no farther ground of offence. 
 My grandsire glosses over his father’s backsliding as 
 smoothly as he can, and comforts himself with ascribing 
 his want of resolution to his unwillingness to wreck the 
 ancient name and family, and to permit his lands and lin- 
 eage to fall under a doom of forfeiture. 
 
 “ And indeed,” said the venerable compiler, “ as, prais- 
 ed be God, we seldom meet in Scotland with these belly- 
 gods and voluptuaries, whilk are unnatural enough to 
 devour their patrimony bequeathed to them by their for- 
 bears in chambering and wantonness, so that they come, 
 with the prodigal son, to the husks and the swine-trough ; 
 and as I have the less to dreid the existence of such un- 
 natural Neroes in mine own family to devour the substance 
 of their own house like the brute beasts out of mere glut- 
 tonie and Epicurishnesse, so I need only warn mine de- 
 scendants against over hastily meddling with the mutations 
 in state and in religion, which have been near-hand to the 
 bringing this poor house of Croftangry to perdition, as 
 we have shown more than once. And albeit I would not 
 that my successors sat still altogether when called on by 
 their duty to Kirk and King ; yet I would have them wait 
 till stronger and walthier men nor themselves were up, so 
 that either they may have the better chance of getting 
 through the day ; or, failing of that, the conquering party 
 
32 
 
 CHRONICLES OF 
 
 having some fatter quarry to live upon, may, like gorged 
 hawks, spare the smaller game.” 
 
 There was something in this conclusion which at first 
 reading piqued me extremely, and I was so unnatural as 
 to curse the whole concern, as poor, bald, pitiful trash, in 
 which a silly old man w 7 as saying a great deal about noth- 
 ing at all. Nay, my first impression was to thrust it into 
 the fire, the rather that it reminded me, in no very flat- 
 tering manner, of the loss of the family property, to 
 which the compiler of the history was so much attached, 
 in the very manner which he most severely reprobated. 
 It even seemed to my aggrieved feelings, that his unpre- 
 scient gaze on futurity, in which he could not anticipate 
 the folly of one of his descendants, who should throw 
 away the whole inheritance in a few years of idle expense 
 and folly, was meant as a personal incivility to myself, 
 though written fifty or sixty years before I was born. 
 
 A little reflection made me ashamed of this feeling of 
 impatience, and as I looked at the even, concise, yet trem- 
 ulous hand in which the manuscript w as written, I could 
 not help thinking, according to an opinion I have heard 
 seriously maintained, that something of a man’s character 
 may be conjectured from his handwriting. That neat, 
 but crowded and constrained small hand, argued a man 
 of a good conscience, well regulated passions, and, to use 
 his own phrase, an upright walk in life ; but it also indi- 
 cated narrowness of spirit, inveterate prejudice, and hint- 
 ed at some degree of intolerance, which, though not 
 natural to the disposition, had arisen out of a limited edu- 
 cation. The passages from Scripture and the classics, 
 rather profusely than happily introduced, and written in a 
 half-text character to mark their importance, illustrated 
 that peculiar sort of pedantry which always considers the 
 argument as gained, if secured by a quotation. Then the 
 flourished capital letters, which ornamented the com- 
 mencement of each paragraph, and the name of his fam- 
 ily and of his ancestors, whenever these occurred in the 
 page, do they not express forcibly the pride and sense of 
 importance with which the author undertook and accom- 
 
TIIE CANONGATE. 
 
 33 
 
 plished his task ? 1 persuaded myself, the whole was so 
 complete a portrait of the man, that it would not have been 
 a more undutiful act to have defaced his picture, or even 
 to have disturbed his bones in his coflin, than to destroy 
 his manuscript. 1 thought, for a moment, of presenting 
 it to Mr. Fairscribe; but that confounded passage about 
 the prodigal and swine-trough — I settled at last it was as 
 well to lock it up in my own bureau, with the intention 
 to look at it no more. 
 
 But 1 do not know how it was, that the subject began 
 to sit nearer my heart than I was aware of, and I found 
 myself repeatedly engaged in reading descriptions of 
 farms which were no longer mine, and boundaries which 
 marked the property of others. A love of the natale 
 solum , if Swift be right in translating these words, “ fam- 
 ily estate,” began to awaken in my bosom ; the recollec- 
 tions of my own youth adding little to it, save what was 
 connected with field sports. A career of pleasure is un- 
 favourable for acquiring a taste for natural beauty, and 
 still more so for forming associations of a sentimental kind, 
 connecting us with the inanimate objects around us. 
 
 I had thought little about my estate, while I possessed 
 and was wasting it, unless as affording the rude materials 
 out of which a certain inferior race of creatures, called 
 tenants, were bound to produce (in a greater quantity than 
 they actually did) a certain return called rent, which was 
 destined to supply my expenses. This was my general 
 view of the matter. Of particular places, 1 recollected 
 that Garval-hill was a famous piece of rough upland pas- 
 ture, for rearing young colts, and teaching them to throw 
 their feet, — that Minion-burn had the finest yellow trout 
 in the country,— that Seggycleugh was unequalled for 
 woodcocks, — that Ben-gibbert moors afforded excellent 
 moorfowl-shooting, and that the clear bubbling fountain 
 called the Harper’s Well, was the best recipe in the world 
 on the morning after a Hard-go with my neighbour fox- 
 hunters. Still these ideas recalled, by degrees, pictures, 
 of which I had since learned to appreciate the merit — 
 scenes of silent loneliness, where extensive moors, undu- 
 
34 
 
 CHRONICLES OF 
 
 lating into wild hills, were only disturbed by the whistle 
 of the plover, or the crow of the heath-cock ; wild ravines 
 creeping up into mountains, filled with natural wood, and 
 which, when traced downwards along the path formed by 
 shepherds and nutters, were found gradually to enlarge 
 and deepen, as each formed a channel to its own brook, 
 sometimes bordered by steep banks of earth, often with 
 the more romantic boundary of naked rocks or cliffs, 
 crested with oak, mountain-ash, and hazel, — all gratify- 
 ing the eye the more that the scenery was, from the bare 
 nature of the country around, totally unexpected. 
 
 I had recollections, too, of fair and fertile holms, or 
 level plains, extending between the wooded banks and the 
 bold stream of the Clyde, which, coloured like pure am- 
 ber, or rather having the hue of the pebbles called Cairn- 
 gorm, rushes over sheets of rock and beds of gravel, 
 inspiring a species of awe from the few and faithless fords 
 which it presents, and the frequency of fatal accidents, 
 now diminished by the number of new bridges. These 
 alluvial holms were frequently bordered by triple and 
 quadruple rows of immensely large trees, which gracefully 
 marked their boundary, and dipped their long arms into 
 the foaming stream of the river. — Other places I remem- 
 bered, which had been described by the old huntsman as 
 the lodge of tremendous wild-cats, or the spot where tra- 
 dition stated the mighty stag to have been brought to bay, 
 or where heroes, whose might was now as much forgot- 
 ten, were said to have been slain by surprise, or in battle. 
 
 It is not to be supposed that these finished landscapes 
 became visible before the eyes of my imagination, as the 
 scenery of the stage is disclosed by the rising of the cur- 
 tain. I have said, that J had looked upon the country 
 around me, during the hurried and dissipated period of 
 my life, with the eyes indeed of my body, but without 
 those of my understanding. It was piece by piece, as a 
 child picks out its lesson, that I began to recollect the 
 beauties of nature which had once surrounded me in the 
 home of my forefathers. A natural taste for them must 
 have lurked at the bottom of my heart, which awakened 
 
THE CANON GATE. 
 
 35 
 
 when I was in foreign countries, and becoming by degrees 
 a favourite passion, gradually turned its eyes inwards, and 
 ransacked the neglected stores which my memory had 
 involuntarily recorded, and when excited, exerted herself 
 to collect and to complete. 
 
 I began now to regret more bitterly than ever the hav- 
 ing fooled away my family properly, the care and im- 
 provement of which I saw might have afforded an agree- 
 able employment for my leisure, .which only went to brood 
 on past misfortunes, and increase useless repining. “ Had 
 but a single farm been reserved, however small,” said I 
 one day to Mr. Fairscribe, “ I should have had a place 
 I could call my home, and something that I could call 
 business.” 
 
 “It might have been managed,” answered Fairscribe; 
 “ and for my part, I inclined to keep the mansion-house, 
 mains, and some of the old family acres, together ; but 
 
 both Mr. and you were of opinion that the money 
 
 would be more useful.” 
 
 “True, true, my good friend,” said J,-“ I was a fool 
 then, and did not think I could incline to be Glentanner 
 with £.200 or £.300 a-year, instead of Glentanner with 
 as many thousands. I was then a haughty, petted, igno- 
 rant, dissipated, broken-down Scotch laird ; and thinking 
 my imaginary consequence altogether ruined, I cared not 
 how soon, or how absolutely, I was rid of every thing that 
 recalled it to my own memory, or that of others.” 
 
 “ And now it is like you have changed your mind 9” 
 said Fairscribe. “ Well, fortune is apt to circumduce the 
 term upon us ; but I think she may allow you to revise 
 your condescendence.” 
 
 “ How do you mean, my good friend 9” 
 
 “ Nay,” said Fairscribe, “ there is ill luck in averring 
 till one is sure of his facts. I will look back on a file of 
 newspapers, and to-morrow you shall hear from me ; come, 
 help yourself — I have seen you fill your glass higher.” 
 “And shall see it again,” said I, pouring out what re- 
 mained of our bottle of claret ; “ the wine is capital, and 
 so shall our toast be — To your fireside, my good friend. 
 
3G 
 
 CHRONICLES OF 
 
 And now we shall go beg a Scots song without foreign 
 graces, from my little siren Miss Kattie.” 
 
 The next day accordingly 1 received a parcel from 
 Mr. Fairseribe with a newspaper enclosed, among the 
 advertisements of which, one was marked with a cross as 
 requiring my attention. I read to my surprise — 
 
 “ DESIRABLE ESTATE FOR SALE. 
 
 “ By order of the Lords of Council and Session, will 
 be exposed to sale in the New Sessions House of Edin- 
 burgh, upon Wednesday the 25th November 18 — , all 
 and whole the lands and barony of Glentanner, now called 
 Castle-Treddles, lying in the Middle Ward of Clydesdale, 
 and shire of Lanark, with the teinds, parsonage and vic- 
 arage, fishings in the Clyde, woods, mosses, moors, and 
 pasturages,” he. he. 
 
 The advertisement went on to set forth the advantages 
 of the soil, situation, natural beauties and capabilities of 
 improvement, not forgetting its being a freehold estate, 
 with the particular polypus capacity of being sliced up into 
 two, three, or, with a little assistance, four freehold qual- 
 ifications, and a hint that the county was likely to be 
 eagerly contested between two great families. The- upset 
 price at which “ the said lands and barony and others” 
 were to be exposed, was thirty years’ purchase of the 
 proven rental, which was about a fourth more than the 
 property had fetched at the last sale. This, which was 
 mentioned, 1 suppose to snow the improvable character 
 of the land, would have given another some pain ; but let 
 me speak truth of myself in good as in evil — it pained not 
 me. 1 was only angry that Fairseribe, who knew some- 
 thing generally of the extent of my funds, should have 
 tantalized me by sending me information that my family 
 property was in the market, since he must have known 
 that the price was far out of my reach. 
 
 But a letter dropped from the parcel on the floor, which 
 attracted my eye, and explained the riddle. A client of 
 Mr. Fairscribe’s, a monied man, thought of buying Glen- 
 
THE CANON G ATE. 
 
 37 
 
 tanner, merely as an investment of money — it was even 
 unlikely he would ever see it ; and so the price of the 
 whole being some thousand pounds beyond what cash he 
 had on hand, this accommodating Dives would gladly take 
 a partner in the sale for any detached farm, and would 
 make no objection to its including the most desirable part 
 of the estate in point of beauty, providing that the price 
 was made adequate. Mr. Fairscribe would take care I 
 was not imposed on in the matter, and said in his card, he 
 believed, if 1 really wished to make such a purchase, I 
 had better go out and look at the premises, advising me, 
 at the same time, to keep a strict incognito ; an advice 
 somewhat superfluous, since 1 am naturally of a retired 
 and reserved disposition. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 Then sing of stage-coaches, 
 
 And fear no reproaches 
 For riding in one ; 
 
 But daily be jogging, 
 
 Whilst, whistling and flogging, 
 
 Whilst, whistling and flogging, 
 
 The coachman drives on. 
 
 Farquhar . 
 
 Disguised in a grey surtout which had seen service, 
 a white castor on my head, and a stout Indian cane in my 
 hand, the next week saw me on the top of a mail-coach 
 driving to the westward. 
 
 I like mail-coaches, and I hate them. I like them for 
 my convenience, but I detest them for setting the whole 
 world a-gadding, instead of sitting quietly still minding 
 their own business, and preserving the stamp of originality 
 of character which nature or education may have impres- 
 4 VOL. I. 
 
38 
 
 CHRONICLES OF 
 
 sed on them. Off they go, jingling against each other in 
 the rattling vehicle till they have no more variety of stamp 
 in them than so many smooth shillings — the same even in 
 their Welsh wigs and great coats, each without more in- 
 dividuality than belongs to a partner of the company, as 
 the waiter calls them, of the North coach. 
 
 Worthy Mr. Piper, best of contractors who ever fur- 
 nished four frampal jades for public use, I bless you when 
 I set out on a journey myself; the neat coaches under 
 your contract render the intercourse, from Johnie Groat’s 
 house to Ladykirk and Cornhill Bridge, safe, pleasant, 
 and cheap. But, Mr. Piper, you, who are a shrewd 
 arithmetician, did it never occur to you to calculate how 
 many fool’s heads, which might have produced an idea or 
 two in the year, if suffered to remain in quiet, get effect- 
 ually addled by jolting to and fro in these flying chariots 
 of yours ; how many decent countrymen become con- 
 ceited bumpkins after a cattle-show dinner in the capital, 
 which they could not have attended save for your means ; 
 how many decent country parsons return critics and 
 spouters, by way of importing the newest taste from Edin- 
 burgh % And how will your conscience answer one day 
 for carrying so many bonny lasses to barter modesty for 
 conceit and levity at the metropolitan Vanity Fair 9 
 
 Consider, too, the low rate to which you reduce human 
 intellect. 1 do not believe your habitual customers have 
 their ideas more enlarged than one of your coach-horses. 
 They knows the road, like the English postillion, and they 
 know nothing beside. They date, like the carriers at 
 Gadshill, from the death of John Ostler ; the succession 
 of guards forms a dynasty in their eyes ; coachmen are 
 their ministers of state, and an upset is to them a greater 
 incident than a change of administration. Their only 
 point of interest on the road is to save the time, and see 
 whether the coach keeps the hour. This is surely a mis- 
 erable degradation of human intellect. Take my advice, 
 my good sir, and disinterestedly contrive that once or twice 
 a quarter, your most dexterous whip shall overturn a 
 coachful of these superfluous travellers, in terrorem to 
 
THE CANON GATE. 
 
 39 
 
 those who, as Horace says, “ delight in the dust raised 
 by your chariots.” 
 
 Your current and customary mail-coach passenger, too, 
 gets abominably selfish, schemes successfully for the best 
 seat, the freshest egg, the right cut of the sirloin. The 
 mode of travelling is death to all the courtesies and kind- 
 nesses of life, and goes a great way to demoralize the 
 character, and cause it to retrograde to barbarism. You 
 allow us excellent dinners, but pnly twenty minutes to eat 
 them ; and what is the consequence Bashful beauty sits 
 on the one side of us, timid childhood on the other ; re- 
 spectable, yet somewhat feeble old age is placed on our 
 front ; and all require those acts of politeness which ought 
 to put every degree upon a level at the convivial board. 
 But have we time — we the strong and active of the party 
 — to perform the duties of the table to the more retired 
 and bashful, to whom these little attentions are due The 
 lady should be pressed to her chicken — the old man help- 
 ed to his favourite and tender slice — the child to his tart. 
 But not a fraction of a minute have we to bestow on any 
 other person than ourselves ; and the prut prut — tut-tut 
 of the guard’s discordant note, summons us to the coach, 
 the weaker party having gone without their dinner, and 
 the able-bodied and active threatened with indigestion 
 from having swallowed victuals like a Lei’stershire clown 
 bolting bacon. 
 
 On the memorable occasion lam speaking of I lost my 
 breakfast, sheerly from obeying the commands of a re- 
 spectable-looking old lady, who once required me to ring 
 the bell, and another time to help the tea-kettle. I have 
 some reason to think she was literally an old Stager , who 
 laughed in her sleeve at my complaisance ; so that I have 
 sworn in my secret soul revenge upon her sex, and all 
 such errant damsels of whatever age and degree, whom I 
 may encounter in my travels. I mean all this without the 
 least ill-will to my friend the contractor, who, I think, has 
 approached as near as any one is like to do towards ac- 
 
40 
 
 CHRONICLES OF 
 
 complishing the modest wish of the Amatus and Amata 
 of the Peri Bathos, 
 
 Ye gods, annihilate but time and space, 
 
 And make two lovers happy. 
 
 I intend to give Mr. P. his full revenge when I come 
 to discuss the more recent enormity of steam-boats ; 
 meanwhile, I shall only say of both these modes of con- 
 veyance, that 
 
 There is no living with them or without them. 
 
 I am perhaps more critical on the — 1 — mail-coach on 
 this particular occasion, that I did not meet all the respect 
 from the worshipful company in his Majesty’s carriage 
 that I think I was entitled to. I must say it for myself, 
 that I bear, in my own opinion at least, not a vulgar point 
 about me. My face has seen service, but there is still a 
 good set of teeth, an aquiline nose, and a quick grey eye, 
 set a little too deep under the eye-brow ; and a cue of 
 the kind once called military, may serve to show that my 
 civil occupations have been sometimes mixed with those 
 of war. Nevertheless, two idle young fellows in the ve- 
 hicle, or rather on the top of it, were so much amused with 
 the deliberation which I used in ascending to the same 
 place of eminence, that I thought I should have been 
 obliged to pull them up a little. And I was in no good- 
 humour, at an unsuppressed laugh following my descent, 
 when set down at the angle, where a cross road, striking 
 off from the main one, led me towards Glentanner, from 
 which I was still nearly five miles distant. 
 
 It was an old-fashioned road, which, preferring ascents 
 to sloughs, was led in a straight line over height and hol- 
 low, through moor and dale. Every object around me, 
 as I passed them in succession, reminded me of old days, 
 and at the same time formed the strongest contrast with 
 them possible. Unattended, on foot, with a small bundle in 
 my hand, deemed scarce sufficient goo 1 company for the 
 two shabby genteels with whom J had been lately perched 
 on the top of a mail-coach, I did not seem to be the same 
 
TIIE CANONGATE. 
 
 41 
 
 person with the young prodigal, who lived with the noblest 
 and gayest in the land, and who, thirty years before, 
 would, in the same country, have been on the back of a 
 horse that had been victor for a plate, or smoking along 
 in his travelling chaise-and-four. My sentiments were 
 not less changed than my condition. I could quite well 
 remember, that my ruling sensation in the days of heady 
 youth, was a mere schoolboy’s eagerness to get farthest 
 forward in the race in which 1 had engaged ; to drink as 
 
 many bottles as ; to be thought as good a judge of 
 
 a horse as ; to have the knowing cut of ’s 
 
 jacket. These were thy gods, O Israel ! 
 
 Now I was a mere looker-on ; seldom an unmoved, 
 and sometimes an angry spectator, but still a spectator 
 only, of the pursuits of mankind. I felt how little my 
 opinion was valued by those engaged in the busy turmoil, 
 yet 1 exercised it with the profusion of an old lawyer re- 
 tired from his profession, who thrusts himself into his 
 neighbour’s affairs, and gives advice where it is not want- 
 ed, merely under pretence of loving the crack of the whip. 
 
 i came amid these reflections to the brow of a hill, 
 from which I expected to see Glentanner ; a modest- 
 looking yet comfortable house, its walls covered with the 
 most productive fruit trees in that part of the country, 
 and screened from the most stormy quarters of the hori- 
 zon by a deep and ancient wood, which overhung the 
 neighbouring hill. The house was gone ; a great part of 
 the wood was felled ; and instead of the gentlemanlike 
 mansion, shrouded and embosomed among its old he- 
 reditary trees, stood Castle-Treddles, a huge lumping four- 
 square pile of freestone, as bare as my nail, except for a 
 paltry edging of decayed and lingering exotics, with an 
 impoverished lawn stretched before it, which, instead of 
 boasting deep green tapestry, enamelled with daisies, and 
 with crowsfoot and cowslips, showed an extent of naked- 
 ness, raked, indeed, and levelled, but where the sown 
 grasses had failed with drought, and the earth, retaining 
 4 * VOL., i. 
 
42 
 
 CHRONICLES OE 
 
 its natural complexion, seemed nearly as brown and bare 
 as when it was newly dug up. 
 
 The house was a large fabric, which pretended to its 
 name of Castle only from the front windows being finish- 
 ed in acute Gothic arches (being, by the way, the very 
 reverse of the castellated style), and each angle graced 
 with a turret about the size of a pepper-box. In every 
 other respect it resembled a large town-house, which, like 
 a fat burgess, had taken a walk to the country on a holi- 
 day, and climbed to the top of an eminence to look around 
 it. The bright red colour of the freestone, the size of the 
 building, the formality of its shape, and awkwardness of 
 its position, harmonized as ill with the sweeping Clyde in 
 front, and the bubbling brook which danced down on the 
 right, as the fat civic form, with bushy wig, gold-headed 
 cane, maroon-coloured coat, and mottled silk stockings, 
 would have accorded with the wild and magnificent scene- 
 ry of Corehouse Linn. 
 
 I went up to the house. It was in that state of deser- 
 tion which is perhaps the most unpleasant to look on, for 
 the place was going to decay, without having been inhab- 
 ited. There were about the mansion, though deserted, 
 none of the slow mouldering touches of time, which com- 
 municate to buildings, as to the human frame, a sort of 
 reverence, while depriving them of beauty and of strength. 
 The disconcerted schemes of the Laird of Castle-Tred- 
 dles, had resembled fruit that becomes decayed without 
 ever having ripened. Some windows broken, others 
 patched, others blocked up with deals, gave a disconso- 
 late air to all around, and seemed to say, “ There Vanity 
 had purposed to fix her seat, but was anticipated by 
 Poverty.” 
 
 To the inside, after many a vain summons, I was at 
 length admitted by an old labourer. The house contain- 
 ed every contrivance for luxury and accommodation ; — 
 the kitchens were a model, and there were hot closets on 
 the office staircase, that the dishes might not cool, as our 
 Scotch phrase goes, between the kitchen and the hall. 
 But instead of the genial smell of good cheer, these tem- 
 
THE CANONGATE. 
 
 43 
 
 pies of Comus emitted the damp odour of sepulchral vaults, 
 and the large cabinets of cast-iron looked like the cages 
 of some feudal Bastille. The eating-room and drawing- 
 room, with an interior boudoir, were magnificent apart- 
 ments, the ceilings fretted and adorned with stucco-work, 
 which already was broken in many places, and looked in 
 others damp and mouldering ; the wood pannelling was 
 shrunk and warped, and cracked ; the doors, which had 
 not been hung for more than two years, were, neverthe- 
 less, already swinging loose from their hinges. Desola- 
 tion, in short, was where enjoyment had never been ; and 
 the want of all the usual means to preserve, was fast per- 
 forming the work of decay. 
 
 The story was a common one, and told in a few words. 
 Mr. Treddles, senior, who bought the estate, was a cau- 
 tious money-making person ; his son, still embarked in 
 commercial speculations, desired at the same time to en- 
 joy his opulence and to increase it. He incurred great 
 expenses, amongst which this edifice was to be numbered. 
 To support these he speculated boldly, and unfortunate- 
 ly ; and thus the whole history is told, which may serve 
 for more places than Glentanner. 
 
 Strange and various feelings ran through my bosom, as 
 1 loitered in these deserted apartments, scarce hearing 
 what my guide said to me about the size and destination 
 of each room. The first sentiment, 1 am ashamed to say, 
 was one of gratified spite. My patrician pride was pleas- 
 ed, that the mechanic, who had not thought the house of 
 the Croftangrys sufficiently good for him, had now ex- 
 perienced a fall in his turn. My next thought was as 
 mean, though not so malicious. 44 I have had the better 
 of this fellow,” thought 1 ; 44 if I lost the estate, I at least 
 spent the price ; and Mr. Treddles has lost his among 
 paltry commercial engagements.” 
 
 44 Wretch !” said the secret voice within, 44 darest thou 
 exult in thy shame 9 Recollect how thy youth and for- 
 tune were wasted in those years, and triumph not in the 
 enjoyment of an existence which levelled thee with the 
 beasts that perish. Bethink thee, how this poor man’s 
 
44 
 
 CHRONICLES OF 
 
 vanity gave at least bread to the labourer, peasant, and 
 citizen ; and his profuse expenditure, like water spilt on 
 the ground, refreshed the lowly herbs and plants where it 
 fell. But thou ! whom hast thou enriched, during thy 
 career of extravagance, save those brokers of the devil, 
 vintners, panders, gamblers, and horse-jockeys V’ The 
 anguish produced by this self-reproof was so strong, that 
 I put my hand suddenly to my forehead, and was obliged 
 to allege a sudden megrim to my attendant, in apology 
 for the action, and a slight groan with which it was ac- 
 companied. 
 
 I then made an effort to turn my thoughts into a more 
 philosophical current, and muttered half aloud, as a charm 
 to lull any more painful thoughts to rest — 
 
 Nunc ager Umbreni sub nomine, nuper Ofelli 
 Dictus , erit nulli proprius ; sed cedet in usum 
 Nunc rnihi, nunc alii. Quocirca vivite fortes , 
 
 Fortiaque adversis opponite pectora rebus.* 
 
 In my anxiety to fix the philosophical precept in my mind, 
 I recited the last line aloud, which, joined to my previous 
 agitation, I afterwards found became the cause of a re- 
 port, that a mad schoolmaster had come from Edinburgh, 
 with the idea in his head of buying Castle-Treddles. 
 
 As I saw my companion was desirous of getting rid of 
 me, I asked where I was to find the person in whose hands 
 were left the map of the estate, and other particulars con- 
 nected with the sale. The agent who had this in pos- 
 session, I was told, lived at the town of — ; which 
 
 * Horace, Sat n. Lib. 2. The meaning will be best conveyed to the 
 English reader iti Pope’s imitation : — 
 
 What’s property, dear Swift ? you see it alter 
 From you to me, from me to Peter Walter; 
 
 Or in a mortgage prove a lawyer’s share ; 
 
 Or in a jointure vanish from the heir. 
 
 *.#*# #**# 
 
 Shades, that to Bacon could retreat afford, 
 
 Become the portion of a booby lord ; 
 
 A nd Helmsiev, once proud Buckingham’s delight, 
 
 Slides to a scrivener and city knight. 
 
 Let lands and houses have what lords they will, 
 
 Let us be fix’d, and our own masters still. 
 
THE CANONGATE. 
 
 45 
 
 1 was informed, and indeed knew well, was distant five 
 miles and a bittock, which may pass in a country where 
 they are less lavish of their laud, for two or three more. 
 Being somewhat afraid of the fatigue of walking so far, I 
 inquired if a horse, or any sort of carriage, was to be had, 
 and was answered in the negative. 
 
 “ But,” said my cicerone, “ you may halt a blink till 
 next morning at the Treddles Arms, a very decent house, 
 scarce a mile off.” 
 
 “ A new house, I suppose 9” replied I. 
 
 “ Na, it’s a new public, bur it’s an auld house ; it was 
 aye the Leddy’s jointure-house in the Croftangry-folk’s 
 time ; but Mr. Treddles has fitted it up for the conven- 
 ience of the country. Poor man, he was a public-spirited 
 man when he had the means.” 
 
 “ Duntarkin a public house !” I exclaimed. 
 
 “ Ay 9” said the fellow, surprised at my naming the 
 place by its former title, “ ye’ll hae been in this country 
 before, I’m thinking 9” 
 
 “ Long since,” 1 replied — “ And there is good accom- 
 modation at the wbat-ii’ye-call-’em arms, and a civil 
 landlord This I said by way of saying something, for 
 the man stared very hard at me. 
 
 “ Very decent accommodation. Ye’ll no be for fash- 
 ing wi’ wine, I’m thinking, and there’s walth o’ porter, 
 ale, and a drap gude whisky — (in an under tone) Fairn- 
 tosh, if you can get on the lee-side of the gudewife — for 
 there is nae gudeman — They ca’ her Christie Steele.” 
 
 I almost started at the sound. Christie Steele ! Christie 
 Steele was my mother’s body servant, her very right hand, 
 and, between ourselves, something like a viceroy over 
 her. I recollected her perfectly ; and though she had, 
 in former times, been no favourite of mine, her name now 
 sounded in my ear like that of a friend, and w r as the first 
 word I had heard somewhat in unison with the associa- 
 tions around me. I sallied from Castle-Treddles, deter- 
 mined to make the best of my way to Duntarkin, and my 
 cicerone hung by me for a little way, giving loose to his 
 love of talking ; an opportunity which, situated as he was, 
 
46 
 
 chronicles of 
 
 the seneschal of a deserted castle, was not likely to occur 
 frequently. 
 
 “ Some folk think Mr. Treddles might as weel have 
 put my wife as Christie Steele into the Treddles Arms, 
 for Christie had been aye in service, and never in the 
 public line, and so it’s like she is ganging back in the 
 world, as 1 hear — now, my wife had keepit a victualling 
 office.” 
 
 “ That would have been an advantage, certainly.” 
 
 “ But I am no sure that I wad ha’ looten Eppie take it, 
 if they had put it in her offer.” 
 
 “ That’s a different consideration.” 
 
 “ Ony way, I wadna ha’ liked to have offended Mr. 
 Treddles ; he was a wee toustie when you rubbed him 
 again the hair — but a kind, weel-meaning man.” 
 
 I wanted to get rid of this species of chat, and finding 
 myself near the entrance of a footpath which made a 
 short cut to Duntarkin, I put half-a-crown into my guide’s 
 hand, bade him good^evening, and plunged into the woods. 
 
 “ Hout, sir — fie, sir — no from the like of you — stay, 
 sir, ye wunna find the way that gate — Odd’s mercy, he 
 maun ken the gate as weel as I do mysell — weel, I wad 
 like to ken wha the chield is.” 
 
 Such were the last words of my guide’s drowsy, unin- 
 teresting tone of voice ; and glad to be rid of him, I 
 strode out stoutly, in despite of large stones, briers, and 
 bad steps , which abounded in the road I had chosen. In 
 the interim, I tried as much as I could, with verses from 
 Horace and Prior, and all who have lauded the mixture 
 of literary with rural life, to call back the visions of last 
 night and this morning, imagining myself settled in some 
 detached farm of the estate of Glentanner, 
 
 Which sloping 1 hills around inclose — 
 
 Where many a birch and brown oak grows ; 
 
 when I should have a cottage with a small library, a small 
 cellar, a spare bed for a friend, and live more happy and 
 more honoured than when I had the whole barony. But 
 the sight of Castle-Treddles had disturbed all my own 
 
THE CANONGATE. 
 
 47 
 
 castles in the air. The realities of the matter, like a 
 stone plashed into a limpid fountain, had destroyed the 
 reflection of the objects around, which, till this act of 
 violence, lay slumbering on the crystal surface, and I tried 
 in vain to re-establish the picture which had been so rude- 
 ly broken. Well, then, 1 would try it another way ; [ 
 would try to get Christie Steele out of her public , since 
 she was not thriving in it, and she who had been my 
 mother’s governante should be mine. I knew all her 
 faults, and I told her history over to myself. 
 
 She was a grand-daughter, I believe, at least some 
 relative, of the famous Covenanter of the name, whom 
 Dean Swift’s friend, Captain Crichton, shot on his own 
 staircase in the times of the persecutions, and had per- 
 haps derived from her native stock much both of its good 
 and evil properties. No one could say of her that she 
 was the life and spirit of the family, though, in my moth- 
 er’s time, she directed all family affairs ; her look was 
 austere and gloomy, and when she was not displeased 
 with you, you could only find it out by her silence. If 
 there was cause for complaint, real or imaginary, Christie 
 was loud enough. She loved my mother with the de- 
 voted attachment of a younger sister, but she was as jeal- 
 ous of her favour to any one else as if she had been the 
 aged husband of a coquettish wife, and as severe in her 
 reprehensions as an abbess over her nuns. The com- 
 mand which she exercised over her, was that, I fear, of 
 a strong and determined over a feeble and more nervous 
 disposition ; and though it was used with rigour, yet, to 
 the best of Christie Steele’s belief, she was urging her 
 mistress to her best and most becoming course, and would 
 have died rather than have recommended any other. 
 The attachment of this woman was limited to the family 
 of Croftangry, for she had few relations ; and a dissolute 
 cousin, whom late in life she had taken as a husband, had 
 long left her a widow. 
 
 To me she had ever a strong dislike. Even from my 
 early childhood, she was jealous, strange as it may seem, 
 of my interest in my mother’s affections ; she saw my 
 
48 
 
 CHRONICLES OF 
 
 foibles and vices with abhorrence, and without a grain of 
 allowance ; nor did she pardon the weakness of maternal 
 affection, even when, by the death of two brothers, I 
 came to be the only child of a widowed parent. At the 
 time my disorderly conduct induced my mother to leave 
 Glentanner, and retreat to her jointure-house, 1 always 
 blamed Christie Steele for having influenced her resent- 
 ment, and prevented her from listening to my vows of 
 amendment, which at times were real and serious, and 
 might, perhaps, have accelerated that change of disposi- 
 tion which has since, I trust, taken place. But Christie 
 regarded me as altogether a doomed and predestinated 
 child of perdition, who was sure to hold on my course, 
 and drag downwards whosoever might attempt to afford 
 me support. 
 
 Still, though I knew such had been Christie’s preju- 
 dices against me in other days, yet I thought enough of 
 time had since passed away to destroy all of them. I 
 knew, that when, through the disorder of my affairs, my 
 mother underwent some temporary inconvenience about 
 money matters, Christie, as a thing of course, stood in 
 the gap, and having sold a small inheritance which had 
 descended to her, brought the purchase-money to her 
 mistress, with a sense of devotion as deep as that which 
 inspired the Christians of the first age, when they sold 
 all they had, and followed the apostles of the church. I 
 therefore thought that we might, in old Scottish phrase, 
 “ let byganes be byganes,” and begin upon a new ac- 
 count. Vet I resolved, like a skilful general to reconnoi- 
 tre a little before laying down any precise scheme of 
 proceeding, and in the interim I determined to preserve 
 my incognito. 
 
THE CANONGATE. 
 
 49 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Alas, how changed from what it once had been . 
 
 ; Twas now degraded to a common inn. 
 
 Gay. 
 
 Half an hour’s brisk walking, or thereabouts, placed 
 me in front of Duntarkin, which had also, I found, under- 
 gone considerable alterations, though it had not been al- 
 together demolished like the principal mansion. An 
 inn-yard extended before the door of the decent little 
 jointure-house, even amidst the remnants of the holly 
 hedges which had screened the lady’s garden. Then a 
 broad, raw-looking, new-made road, intruded itself up 
 the little glen, instead of the old horseway, so seldom 
 used that it was almost entirely covered with grass. It is 
 a great enormity of which gentlemen trustees on the high- 
 ways are sometimes guilty, in adopting the breadth neces- 
 sary for an avenue to the metropolis, where all that is 
 required is an access to some sequestered and unpopu- 
 lous district. I do not say anything of the expense ; 
 that the trustees and their constituents may settle as they 
 please. But the destruction of sylvan beauty is great, 
 when the breadth of the road is more than proportioned 
 to the vale through which it runs, and lowers of course 
 the consequence of any objects of wood or water, or 
 broken and varied ground, which might otherwise attract 
 notice, and give pleasure. A bubbling runnel by the side 
 of one of those modern Appian or Flaminian highways, 
 is but like a kennel, — the little hill is diminished to a hil- 
 lock, — the romantic hillock to a mole-hill, almost too 
 small for sight. 
 
 Such an enormity, however, had destroyed the quiet 
 loneliness of Duntarkin, and intruded its breadth of dust 
 and gravel, and its associations of po-chays and mail- 
 5 VOL. II, 
 
50 
 
 CHRONICLES OF 
 
 coaches, upon one of the most sequestered spots in the 
 Middle Ward of Clydesdale. The house was old and 
 dilapidated, and looked sorry for itself, as if sensible of 
 a derogation ; but the sign was strong and new, and 
 brightly painted, displaying a heraldic shield, three shut- 
 tles in a field diapre, a web partly unfolded for crest, and 
 two stout giants for supporters, each one holding a weaver’s 
 beam proper. To have displayed this monstrous em- 
 blem on the front of the house might have hazarded 
 bringing down the wall, but for certain would have block- 
 ed up one or two windows. It was therefore established 
 independent of the mansion, being displayed in an iron 
 frame-work, and suspended upon two posts, with as much 
 wood and iron about it as would have build ed a brig ; 
 and there it hung, creaking, groaning, and screaming in 
 every blast of wind, and frightening for five miles’ dis- 
 tance, for aught I know, the nests of thrushes and linnets, 
 the ancient denizens of the little glen. 
 
 When I entered the place, I was received by Christie 
 Steele herself, who seemed uncertain whether to drop me 
 in the kitchen, or usher me into a separate apartment. 
 As I called for tea, with something rather more substan- 
 tial than bread and butter, and spoke of supping and 
 sleeping, Christie at last inducted me into the room where 
 she herself had been sitting, probably the only one which 
 had a fire, though the month was October. This an- 
 swered my plan ; and, as she was about to remove her 
 spinning-wheel, I begged she would have the goodness to 
 remain and make my tea, adding, that I liked the sound 
 of the wheel, and desired not to disturb her housewife- 
 thrift in the least. 
 
 “ I dinna ken, sir,” — she replied in a dry reveche tone, 
 which carried me back twenty years, “ I am nane of thae 
 heartsome landleddies that can tell country cracks, and 
 make themselves agreeable ; and I was ganging to pit on 
 a fire for you in the Red room ; but if it is your will to 
 stay here, he that pays the lawing maun choose the lodg- 
 ing.” 
 
THE CANONGATE. 
 
 51 
 
 I endeavoured to engage her in conversation ; but 
 though she answered with a kind oi stiff' civility, I could 
 get her into no freedom of discourse, and she began to 
 look at her wheel and at the door more than once, as if 
 she meditated a retreat. I was obliged, therefore, to 
 proceed to some special questions that might have interest 
 for a person, whose ideas were probably of a very bound- 
 ed description. 
 
 I looked round the apartment, being the same in which 
 I had last seen my poor mother. The author of the 
 family history, formerly mentioned, had taken great credit 
 to himself for the improvements he had made in this 
 same jointure-house of Duntarkin, and how, upon his 
 marriage, when his mother took possession of the same 
 as her jointure-house, “ to his great charges and expenses 
 he caused box the walls of the great parlour, (in which I 
 was now sitting,) empannel the same, and plaster the roof, 
 finishing the apartment with ane concave chimney, and 
 decorating the same with pictures, and a barometer and 
 thermometer.” And in particular, which his good moth- 
 er used to say she prized above all the rest, he had caus- 
 ed his own portraiture be limned over the mantel-piece 
 by a skilful hand. And, in good faith, there he remained 
 still, having much the visage which I was disposed to as- 
 cribe to him on the evidence of his handwriting, — grim 
 and austere, yet not without a cast of shrewdness and 
 determination ; in armour, though he never wore it, I 
 fancy ; one hand on an open book, and one resting on the 
 hilt of his sword, though I dare say his head never ached 
 with reading, nor his limbs with fencing. 
 
 “ That picture is painted on the wood, madam,” said I. 
 “ Ay, sir, or it’s like it would not have been left there ; 
 — they took a’ they could.” 
 
 “ Mr. Treddles’s creditors, you mean ?” said I. 
 
 “ Na,” replied she, drily, “ the creditors of another 
 family, that sweepit cleaner than this poor man’s, because 
 I fancy there was less to gather.” 
 
 “ An older family, perhaps, and probably more remem- 
 bered and regretted than later possessors 9” 
 
52 
 
 CHRONICLES OF 
 
 Christie here settled herself in her seat, and pulled her 
 wheel towards her. I had given her something interest- 
 ing for her thoughts to dwell upon, and her wheel was a 
 mechanical accompaniment on such occasions, the revo- 
 lutions of which assisted her in the explanation of her 
 ideas. 
 
 “ Mair regretted — mair missed ? — I liked ane of the 
 auld family very weel, but I winna say that for them a’. 
 How should they be mair missed than the Treddles ? 
 The cotton mill was such a thing for the country ! The 
 mair bairns a cottar body had the better ; they would 
 make their awn keep frae the time they were five years 
 auld ; and a widow wi’ three or four bairns was a wealthy 
 woman in the time of the Treddleses.” 
 
 “ But the health of these poor children, my good 
 friend — their education and religious instruction ” 
 
 “ For health,” said Christie, looking gloomily at me, 
 “ ye maun ken little of the warld, sir, if ye dinna ken 
 that the health of the poor man’s body, as weel as his youth 
 and his strength, are all at the command of the rich man’s 
 purse. There never was a trade so unhealthy yet, but 
 men would fight to get wark at it for tvva pennies a-day 
 aboon the common wage. But the bairns were reasona- 
 bly weel cared for in the way of air and exercise, and a 
 very responsible youth heard them their carritch, and gied 
 them lessons in Reediemadeasy.* Now, what did they 
 ever get before? x Maybe on a winter day they wad be 
 called out to beat the wood for cocks or siclike, and then 
 the starving weans would maybe get a bite of broken 
 bread, and maybe no, just as the butler was in humour — 
 that was a’ they got.” 
 
 “ They were not, then, a very kind family to the poor, 
 these old possessors?” said I, somewhat bitterly ; for I 
 had expected to hear my ancestors’ praises recorded, 
 though I certainly despaired of being regaled with my 
 own. 
 
 “ They werena ill to them, sir, and that is aye some- 
 
 * 11 Reading - made Easy,” usually so pronounced in Scotland, 
 
THE CANONGATE. 
 
 53 
 
 thing. They were just decent bien bodies ; — ony pooi 
 creature that had face to beg got an awraous and wel- 
 come ; they that were shamefaced gaed by, and twice as 
 welcome. But they keepit an honest walk before God 
 and man, the Croftangrys, and, as I said before, if they 
 did little good, they did as little ill. They lifted their 
 rents and spent them, called in their kain and eat them ; 
 gaed to the kirk of a Sunday, bowed civilly if folk took 
 aff their bannets as they gaed by, and lookit as black as 
 sin at them that keepit them on.” 
 
 “ These are their arms that you have on the sign ?” 
 
 “ What ! on the painted board that is skirling and 
 groaning at the door ? — Na, these are Mr. Treddles’s 
 arms — though they look as like legs as arms — ill pleased 
 I was at the fule thing, that cost as muckle as would hae 
 repaired the house from the wa’ stane to the rigging-tree. 
 But if I am to bide here, I’ll hae the decent board wi’ 
 the punch bowl back again.” 
 
 “ Is there a doubt of your staying here, Mrs. Steele !” 
 “ Dinna Mistress me,” said the cross old woman, 
 whose fingers were now plying their thrift in a manner 
 which indicated nervous irrilat’on — “ there was nae luck 
 in the laud since Luckie turned Mistress, and Mistress my 
 Leddy ; and as for staying here, if it concerns you to 
 ken, I may stay if I can pay a hundred pund sterling for 
 the lease, and I may flit if 1 canna ; and so gude e’en to 
 you, Christie,” — and round went the wheel with much 
 activity. 
 
 “ And you like the trade of keeping a public house ?” 
 “ I can scarce say that,” she replied. “ But worthy 
 Mr. Prendergast is clear of its lawfulness, and I hae got- 
 ten used to it, and made a decent living, though I never 
 make out a fause reckoning, or give ony ane the means to 
 disorder reason in my house.” 
 
 “ Indeed,” said I, “ in that case, there is no wonder 
 you have not made up the hundred pounds to purchase 
 the lease.” 
 
 “ How do you ken,” said she sharply, “ that I might 
 
 5* VOL, i. 
 
54 
 
 CHRONICLES OF 
 
 not have had a hundred punds of my ain fee 9 If I 
 have it not, I am sure it is my ain faut ; and I vvunna ca’ 
 it faut neither, for it gaed to her wha was weel entitled to 
 a’ my service.” Again she pulled stoutly at the flax, 
 and the wheel went smartly round. 
 
 “ This old gentleman,” said J, fixing my eye on the 
 painted pannel, “ seems to have had his arms painted as 
 well as Mr. Treddles — that is, if that painting in the cor- 
 ner be a scutcheon.” 
 
 “ Ay, ay — cushion, just sae, they maun a 5 hae their 
 cushions ; there’s sma’ gentry without that ; and so the 
 arms, as they ca’ them, of the house of Glentanner, may 
 be seen on an auld stane in the west end of the house. 
 But to do them justice, they didna propale sae muckle 
 about them as poor Mr. Treddles did ; — it’s like they 
 were better used to them.” 
 
 “ Very likely. — Are there any of the old family in 
 life, goodwife 9” 
 
 “ No,” she replied ; then added, after a moment’s 
 hesitation — “ not that I know of,” — and the wheel, which 
 had intermitted, began again to revolve. 
 
 “ Gone abroad, perhaps 9” I suggested. 
 
 She now looked up and faced me — “ No, sir. There 
 were three sons of the last laird of Glentanner, as he was 
 then called ; John and William were hopeful young gen- 
 tlemen, but they died early — one of a decline, brought 
 on by the mizzles, the other lost his life in a fever. It 
 would hae been lucky for mony ane that Chrystal had 
 gane the same gate.” 
 
 u Oh — he must have been the young spendthrift that 
 sold the property 9 Well, but you should not have such 
 an ill-will against him : remember necessity has no law ; 
 and then, goodwife, he was not more culpable than Mr. 
 Treddles, whom you are so sorry for.” 
 
 “ I wish I could think sae, sir, for his mother’s sake ; 
 but Mr. Treddles was in trade, and though he had no 
 preceese right to do so, yet there was some warrant for a 
 man being expensive that imagined he was making a mint 
 of money. But this unhappy lad devoured his patrimo- 
 
THE CANONGATK. 
 
 55 
 
 ny, when he kenned that he was living like a ratten in a 
 Dunlap cheese, and diminishing his means at a’ hands — 
 I canna bide to think on’t.” With this she broke out into 
 a snatch of a ballad ; but little of mirth was there either 
 in the tone or the expression — 
 
 “ For he did spend, and make an end 
 Of gear that his forefathers wan : 
 
 Of land and ware he made him bare, 
 
 So speak nae mair of the auld gudeman.” 
 
 “ Come, dame,” said I, “ it is a long lane that has no 
 turning. I will not keep from you that I have heard 
 something of this poor fellow, Cbrystal Croftangry. He 
 has sown his wild oats, as they say, and has settled into a 
 steady respectable man.” 
 
 “ And wha tell’d ye that tidings'?” said she, looking 
 sharply at me. 
 
 “ Not perhaps the best judge in the world of his char- 
 acter, for it was himself, dame.” 
 
 “ And if he tell’d you truth, it was a virtue he did not 
 aye usje to practise,” said Christie. 
 
 “ The devil !” said I, considerably nettled ; “ all the 
 world held him to be a man of honour.” 
 
 “ Ay, ay ! he would hae shot ony body wi’ his pistofe 
 and his guns, that had evened him to be a liar. But if 
 he promised to pay an honest tradesman the next term- 
 day, did he keep his word then And if he promised 
 a poor silly lass to make gude her shame, did he speak 
 truth then ? And what is that, but being a liar, and a 
 black-hearted deceitful liar to boot ?” 
 
 My indignation was rising, but I strove to suppress it ; 
 indeed, 1 should only have afforded my tormentor a tri- 
 umph by an angry reply. I partly suspected she began 
 to recognize me ; yet she testified so little emotion, that I 
 could not think my suspicion well founded. I went on, 
 therefore, to say, in a tone as indifferent as I could com- 
 mand, “ Well, goodwife, I see you will believe no good 
 of this Cbrystal of yours, till he comes back and buys a 
 good farm an the estate, and makes you his housekeeper.” 
 
56 
 
 CHRONICLES OF 
 
 The old woman dropped her thread, folded her hands, 
 as she looked up to heaven with a face of apprehension. 
 “ The Lord,” she exclaimed, “ forbid ! the Lord in his 
 mercy forbid ! Oh, sir ! if you really know this unlucky 
 man, persuade him to settle where folk ken the good that 
 you say he has come to, and dinna ken the evil of his 
 former days. He used to be proud enough — O dinna 
 let him come here, even for bis own sake. — He used 
 ance to have some pride.” 
 
 Here she once more drew the wheel close to her, and 
 began to pull at the flax with both hands — “ Dinna let him 
 come here, to be looked down upon by ony that may be 
 left of his auld reiving companions, and to see the decent 
 folk that he looked over his nose at look over their noses 
 at him, baith at kirk and market. Dinna let him come 
 to his ain country to be made a tale about when ony 
 neighbour points him out to another, and tells what he is, 
 and what he was, and how he wrecked a dainty estate, 
 and brought harlots to the door-cheek of his father’s 
 house, till he made it nae residence for his mother ; and 
 how it had been foretauld by a servant of his ain house, 
 that he was a ne’er-do-weel, and a child of perdition, and 
 how her words were made good, and ” 
 
 “ Stop there, goodwife, if you please,” said I : “ you 
 have said as much as I can well remember, and more than 
 it may be safe to repeat. ] can use a great deal of free- 
 dom with the gentleman we speak of ; but 1 think were 
 any other person to carry him half of your message, I 
 would scarce insure his personal safety. And now, as I 
 see the night is settled to be a fine one, I will walk on 
 
 to , where I must meet a coach to-morrow, as it 
 
 passes to Edinburgh.” 
 
 So saying, I paid my moderate reckoning, and took 
 my leave, without being able to discover whether the pre- 
 judiced and hard-hearted old woman did, or did not, sus- 
 pect the identity of her guest, with the Chrystal Croftan-* 
 gry against whom she harboured so much dislike. 
 
 The night was fine and frosty, though, when 1 pretend- 
 ed to see what its character was, it might have rained like 
 
TIIE CANONGATK. 
 
 57 
 
 the deluge. I only made the excuse to escape from old 
 Christie Steele. The horses which run races in the 
 Corso at Rome without any riders, in order to stimulate 
 their exertion, carry each his own spurs, namely, small 
 balls of steel, with sharp projecting spikes, which are at- 
 tached to loose straps of leather, and, flying about in the 
 violence of the agitation, keep the horse to bis speed by 
 pricking him as they strike against bis flanks. The old 
 woman’s reproaches had the same effect on me, and urg- 
 ed me to a rapid pace, as if it bad been possible to escape 
 from my own recollections. In the best days of my life, 
 when I won one or two bard walking matches, I doubt if 
 I ever walked so fast as I did betwixt the Treddles Arms 
 and the borough town for which 1 was bound. Though 
 the night was cold, I was warm enough by the time I got 
 to my inn ; and it required a refreshing draught of porter, 
 with half an hour’s repose, ere I could determine to give 
 no farther thought to Christie and her opinions, than those 
 of any other vulgar prejudiced old woman. I resolved 
 at last to treat the thing en bagatelle , and, calling for 
 writing materials, I folded up a cheque for £.100, with 
 these lines on the envelope : 
 
 Chrystal, the ne’er-do-weel, 
 
 Child destined to the Deil, 
 
 Sends this to Christie Steele. 
 
 And I was so much pleased with this new mode of view- 
 ing the subject, that I regretted the lateness of the hour 
 prevented my finding a person to carry the letter express 
 to its destination. 
 
 But with the morning cool reflection came. 
 
 I considered that the money, and probably more, was 
 actually due by me on my mother’s account to Christie, 
 who had lent it in a moment of great necessity, and that 
 the returning it in a light or ludicrous manner was not 
 unlikely to prevent so touchy and punctilious a person 
 from accepting a debt which was most justly her due, 
 and which it became me particularly to see satisfied. 
 
58 
 
 CHRONICLES OF 
 
 Sacrificing then my triad with little regret, (for it looked 
 better by candle-light and through the medium of a pot 
 of porter, than it did by daylight, and with bohea for a 
 menstruum,) 1 determined to employ Mr. Fairscribe’s 
 mediation in buying up the lease of the little inn, and 
 conferring it upon Christie in the way which should make 
 it most acceptable to her feelings. It is only necessary 
 to add, that my plan succeeded, and that Widow Steele 
 even yet keeps the Treddles Arms. Do not say, there- 
 fore, that I have been disingenuous with you, reader; 
 since, i( I have not told all the ill of myself I might have 
 done, 1 have indicated to you a person able and willing 
 to supply the blank, by relating all my delinquencies, as 
 well as my misfortunes. 
 
 In the meantime, 1 totally abandoned the idea of re- 
 deeming any part of my paternal property, and resolved 
 to take Christie Steele’s advice, as young Norval does 
 Glenalvon’s, • although it sounded harshly.” 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 — If you will know my house, 
 
 ,r Tis at the tuft of olives here hard-by. 
 
 As You Like It. 
 
 Ey a revolution of humour which I am unable to ac- 
 count for, I changed my mind entirely on my plans of 
 life, in consequence of the disappointment, the history of 
 which fills the last chapter. 1 began to discover that the 
 country would not at all suit me ; for I had relinquished 
 field-sports, and felt no inclination whatever to farming, 
 the ordinary vocation of country gentlemen ; besides that 
 1 had no talent for assisting either candidate in case of an 
 expected election, and saw no amusement in the duties 
 of a road trustee, a commissioner of supply, or even in 
 
THE CANONGATE. 
 
 59 
 
 the magisterial functions of the bench. I had begun to 
 take some taste for reading ; and a domiciliation in the 
 country must remove me from the use of books, except- 
 ing the small subscription library, in which the very book 
 which you want is uniformly sure to be engaged. 
 
 I resolved, therefore, to make the Scottish metropolis 
 my regular resting-place, reserving to myself to take oc- 
 casionally those excursions, which, spite of all I have said 
 against mail-coaches, Mr. Piper has rendered so easy. 
 Friend of our life and of our leisure, he secures by de- 
 spatch against loss of time, and by the best of coaches, 
 cattle, and steadiest of drivers, against hazard of limb, and 
 wafts us, as well as our letters, from Edinburgh to Cape 
 Wrath in the penning of a paragraph. 
 
 When my mind was quite made up to make Auld 
 Reekie my head-quarters, reserving the privilege of ex- 
 ploring in all directions, I began to explore in good ear- 
 nest for the purpose of discovering a suitable habitation. 
 “ And whare trew ye I gaed V 9 as Sir Pertinax says. 
 Not to George’s square — nor to Charlotte Square — nor 
 to the old New Town — nor to the New Town — nor to 
 the Calton Hill ; I went to the Canongate, and to the 
 very portion of the Canongate in which 1 had formerly 
 been immured, like the errant knight, prisoner in some 
 enchanted castle, where spells have made the ambient 
 air impervious to the unhappy captive, although the or- 
 gans of sight encountered no obstacle to his free passage. 
 
 Why I should have thought of pitching my tent here 
 I cannot tell. Perhaps it was to enjoy the pleasures of 
 freedom, where ] had so long endured the bitterness of 
 restraint ; on the principle of the officer, who, after he 
 had retired from the army, ordered his servant to continue 
 to call him at the hour of parade, simply that he might 
 have the pleasure of saying — “D — n the parade,” and 
 turning to the other side to enjoy his slumbers. Or per- 
 haps 1 expected to find in the vicinity some little old-fash- 
 ioned house, having somewhat of the rus in urbe , which 
 I was ambitious of enjoying. Enough, 1 went, as afore- 
 said, to the Canongate. 
 
60 
 
 CHRONICLES OF 
 
 I stood'by the kennel, of which I have formerly spoken, 
 and, my mind being at ease, my bodily organs were more 
 delicate. I was more sensible than heretofore, that, like 
 the trade of Pompey in Measure for Measure — it did in 
 
 some sort pah — an ounce of civet, good apothecary. 
 
 — Turning from thence, my steps naturally directed them- 
 selves to my own humble apartment, where my little High- 
 land landlady, as dapper and as tight as ever, (for old 
 women wear a hundred times better than the hard-wrought 
 seniors of the masculine sex,) stood at the door, teedling 
 to herself a Highland song as she shook a table napkin 
 over the fore-stair, and then proceeded to fold it up neatly 
 for future service. 
 
 44 How do you, Janet 9” 
 
 44 Thank ye, good sir,” answered my old friend, with- 
 out looking at me ; 64 but ye might as weel say Mrs. Mac- 
 Evoy, for she is na a’body’s Shanet — umph.” 
 
 44 You must be my Janet, though, for all that — have 
 you forgot me 9 — Do you not remember Chrystal Croft- 
 angry 9” 
 
 The light, kind-hearted creature threw her napkin into 
 the open door, skipped down the stair like a fairy, three 
 steps at once, seized me by the hands, — both hands, — 
 jumped up, and actually kissed me. I was a little asham- 
 ed ; but what swain, of somewhere inclining to sixty, 
 could resist the advances of a fair contemporary 9* So 
 we allowed the full degree of kindness to the meeting, — 
 honi soit qui mol y pensc, — and then Janet entered instant- 
 ly upon business. 44 An’ ye’ll gae in, man, and see your 
 auld lodgings, nae doubt, and Shanet will pay ye the fif- 
 teen shillings of change that ye ran away without, and 
 without bidding Shanet good day. But never mind,” 
 (nodding good-humouredly,) 44 Shanet saw you were car- 
 ried for the time.” 
 
 By this time we were in my old quarters, and Janet, 
 with her bottle of cordial in one hand and the glass in the 
 other, had forced on me a dram of usquebaugh, distilled 
 with saffron and other herbs, after some old-fashioned 
 Highland receipt. Then was unfolded, out of many a 
 
THE CANONGATE. 
 
 61 
 
 little scrap of paper, the reserved sum of fifteen shillings, 
 which Janet had treasured for twenty years and upwards. 
 
 “ Here they are,” she said, in honest triumph, “ just 
 the same I was holding out to ye when ye ran as if ye had 
 been fey. Shanet has had siller, and Shanet has wanted 
 siller, mony a time since that — and the gauger has come, 
 and the factor has come, and the butcher and baker — 
 Cot bless us — just like to tear poor auld Shanet to pieces ; 
 but she took good care of Mr. Croftangry’s fifteen shil- 
 lings.” 
 
 “ But what if I had never come back, Janet 9” 
 
 “ Och, if Shanet had heard you were dead, she would 
 hae gien it to the poor of the chapel, to pray for Mr. 
 Croftangry,” said Janet, crossing herself, for she was a 
 Catholic ; — “ you maybe do not think it would do you 
 cood, but the blessing of the poor can never do no harm.” 
 I agreed heartily in Janet’s conclusion ; and, as to have 
 desired her to consider the hoard as her own property, 
 would have been an indelicate return to her for the up- 
 rightness of her conduct, I requested her to dispose of it 
 as she had proposed to do in the event of my death, that 
 is, if she knew any poor people of merit to whom it might 
 be useful. 
 
 “ Ower mony of them,” raising the corner of her check- 
 ed apron to her eyes, “ e’en ower mony of them, Mr. 
 Croftangry. — Och, ay — there is the puir Highland crea- 
 tures frae Glenshee, that cam down for the harvest, and 
 are lying wi’ the fever — five shillings to them, and half-a- 
 crown to Bessie MacEvoy, whose coodman, puir creature, 
 died of the frost, being a shairman, for a’ the whisky he 
 
 could drink to keep it out o’ his stamoch — and ” 
 
 But she suddenly interrupted the bead-roll of her pro- 
 posed charities, and assuming a very sage look, and prim- 
 ming up her little chattering mouth, she went on in a 
 different tone — “ But, och, Mr. Croftangry, bethink ye 
 whether ye will not need a’ this siller yoursell, and maybe 
 look back and think lang for ha’en kiven it away, whilk is 
 a creat sin to forthink a wark o’ charity, and also is un- 
 
 6 VOL. 1. 
 
62 
 
 CHRONICLES OF 
 
 lucky, and moreover is not the thought of a shentleman’s 
 son like yoursell, dear. And I say this, that ye may think 
 a bit, for your mother’s son kens that ye are no so care- 
 ful as you should be of the gear, and I hae tauld ye of it 
 before, jewel.” 
 
 1 assured her I could easily spare the money, without 
 risk of future repentance ; and she went on to infer, 
 that, in such a case, 46 Mr. Croftangry had grown a rich 
 man in foreign parts, and was free of his troubles with 
 messengers and sheriff-officers, and siclike scum of the 
 earth, and Shanet MacEvoy’s mother’s daughter be a 
 blithe woman to hear it. Put if Mr. Croftangry was in 
 trouble, there was his room, and his ped, and Shanet to 
 wait on him, and tak payment when it was quite con- 
 venient.” 
 
 1 explained to Janet my situation, in which she express- 
 ed unqualified delight. 1 then proceeded to inquire into 
 her own circumstances, and, though she spoke cheerfully 
 and contentedly, I could see they were precarious. I had 
 paid more than was due ; other lodgers fell into an oppo- 
 site error, and forgot to pay Janet at all. Then, Janet 
 being ignorant of all indirect modes of screwing money 
 out of her lodgers, others in the same line of life, who 
 were sharper than the poor simple Highland woman, were 
 enabled to let their apartments cheaper in appearance, 
 though the inmates usually found them twice as dear in 
 the long-run. 
 
 As I had already destined my old landlady to be my 
 housekeeper and governante, knowing her honesty, good- 
 nature, and, although a Scotchwoman, her cleanliness and 
 excellent temper, (saving the short and hasty expressions 
 of anger which Highlanders call a fuff,) I now proposed 
 the plan to her in such a way as was likely to make it 
 most acceptable. Very acceptable as the proposal was, 
 as 1 could plainly see, Janet, however, took a day to con- 
 sider upon it; and her reflections against our next meet- 
 ing had suggested only one objection, which was singular 
 enough. 
 
TIili CANONGATE. 
 
 “ My honour,” so she now termed me, “ would 
 biding in some fine street a pout the town ; now Shanet 
 wad ill like to live in a place where polish, and sheriffs, 
 and bailiffs, and sic thieves and trash of the world, could 
 tak puir shentlemen by the throat, just because they want- 
 ed a vvheen dollars in the sporran. She had lived in the 
 bonny glen of Tomanthoulick — Cot, an ony ol the ver- 
 mint had come there, her father would hae wared a shot 
 on them, and he could hit a buck within as mony meas- 
 ured yards as e’er a man of his clan. And the place 
 here was so quiet frae them, they durst na put their nose 
 ower the gutter. Shanet ofred nobody a bodle, put she 
 couldna bide to see honest folk and pretty shentlemen 
 forced away to prison whether they would or no ; and 
 then if Shanet was to lay her tangs ower ane of the rag- 
 amuffins’ heads, it would be, maybe, that the law would 
 gi’ed a hard name.” 
 
 One thing I have learned in life, — never to speak sense 
 when nonsense will answer the purposeras well. I should 
 have had great difficulty to convince this practical and dis- 
 interested admirer and vindicator of liberty, that arrests 
 seldom or never were to be seen in the streets of Edin- 
 burgh, and to satisfy her of their justice and necessity, 
 would have been as difficult as to convert her to the Pro- 
 testant faith. 1 therefore assured her my intention, if I 
 could get a suitable habitation, was to remain in the quarter 
 where she at present dwelt. Janet gave three skips on 
 the floor, and uttered as many short shrill yells of joy ; 
 yet doubt almost instantly returned, and she insisted on 
 knowing what possible reason I could have for making my 
 residence where few lived, save those whose misfortunes 
 drove them thither. It occurred to me to answer her by 
 recounting the legend of the rise of my family, and of 
 our deriving our name from a particular place near Holy- 
 rood Palace. This, which would have appeared to most 
 people a very absurd reason for choosing a residence, was 
 entirely satisfactory to Janet MacEvoy. 
 
 “ Och, nae doubt ! if it was the land of her fathers, 
 there was nae mair to be said. Put it was queer that her 
 
CHKONICLES OF 
 
 estate should just lie at the town tail, and covered 
 with houses where the King’s cows, Cot bless them hide 
 and horn, used to craze upon. Jt was strange changes.” 
 — She mused a little, and then added, “ Put it is some- 
 thing better wi’ Croftangry when the changes is frae the 
 field to the habited place, and not from the place of hab- 
 itation to the desert; for Sbanet, her nainsell, kent a glen 
 where there w r ere men as weel as there maybe in Croft- 
 angry, and if there werena altogether sae mony of them, 
 they were as good men in their tartan as the others in 
 their broadcloth. And there were houses too, and if they 
 w r ere not biggit with stane and lime, and lofted like the 
 houses at Croftangry, yet they served the purpose of them 
 that lived there ; and mony a braw bonnet, and mony a 
 silk snood, and comely white curch, would come out to 
 gang to kirk or chapel on the Lord’s day, and little bairns 
 toddling after ; and now, — Och, Och, Ohellany, Ohonari ! 
 the glen is desolate, and the braw snoods and bonnets are 
 gane, and the Saxon’s house stands dull and lonely, like 
 the single bare-breasted rock that the falcon builds on — - 
 the falcon that drives the heath-bird frae the glen.” 
 
 Janet, like many Highlanders, was full of imagination ; 
 and, when melancholy themes came upon her, expressed 
 herself almost poetically, owing to the genius of the Celtic 
 language in which she thought, and in which, doubtless, 
 she would have spoken, had 1 understood Gaelic. In two 
 minutes the shade of gloom and regret had passed from 
 her good-humoured features, and she was again the little 
 busy, prating, important old woman, undisputed owner of 
 one fiat of a small tenement in the Abbey-yard, and about 
 to be promoted to be housekeeper to an elderly bachelor 
 gentleman, Chrystal Croftangry, Esq. 
 
 It was not long before Janet’s local researches found 
 out exactly the sort of place I wanted, and there we set- 
 tled. Janet was afraid I would not be satisfied, because 
 it is not exactly part of Croftangry ; but I stopped her 
 doubts, by assuring her it had been part and pendicle 
 thereof in my forefathers’ time, which passed very vvelk 
 
THE CANONGATE. 
 
 65 
 
 I do not intend to possess any one with an exact know- 
 ledge of my lodging ; though, as Bobadil says, “ I care 
 not who knows it, since the cabin is convenient.” But I 
 may state in general, that it is a house “ within itself,” or 
 according to a newer phraseology in advertisements, self- 
 contained , has a garden of near half an acre, and a patch 
 of ground with trees in front. It boasts five rooms and 
 servants’ apartments — looks in front upon the palace, and 
 from behind towards the hill and crags of the King’s Park. 
 Fortunately the place had a name, which, with a little im- 
 provement, served to countenance the legend which I had 
 imposed on Janet, and would not perhaps have been sorry 
 if L had been able to impose on myself. It was called 
 Littlecroft ; we have dubbed it Little Croftangry, and the 
 men of letters belonging to the Post Office have sanction- 
 ed the change, and deliver letters so addressed. 
 
 My establishment consists of Janet, an under maid- 
 servant, and a Highland wench for Janet to exercise her 
 Gaelic upon, with a handy lad who can lay the cloth, and 
 take care besides of a pony, on which I find my way. to 
 Portobello sands, especially when the cavalry have a 
 drill ; for, like an old fool as I am, I have not altogether 
 become indifferent to the tramp of horses and the flash 
 of weapons, of which, though no professional soldier, it 
 has been my fate to see something in my youth. For 
 wet mornings, I have my book — is it fine weather, I visit 
 or I wander on the Crags as the humour dictates. My 
 dinner is indeed solitary, yet not quite so neither ; for 
 though Andrew waits, Janet, or, — as she is to all the 
 world but her master, and certain old Highland gossips, — * 
 Mrs. MacEvoy, attends, bustles about, and desires to see 
 everything is in first-rate order, and to tell me, Cot pless 
 us, the wonderful news of the Palace for the day. When 
 the cloth is removed, and I light rny cigar, and begin to 
 husband a pint of port, or a glass of old whisky and water, 
 it is the rule of the house that Janet takes a chair at some 
 distance, and nods or works her stocking, as she may be 
 disposed ; ready to speak, if 1 am in the talking humour, 
 
 6* VOL. i. 
 
66 
 
 CHItONICLKS OF 
 
 and sitting quiet as a mouse if I am rather inclined to 
 study a book or die newspaper. At six precisely she makes 
 my tea, and leaves me to drink it ; and then occurs an 
 interval of time which most old bachelors find heavy on 
 their hands. The theatre is a good occasional resource, 
 but it is distant, and so are one or two public societies to 
 which I belong ; besides, these evening walks are all in- 
 compatible with the elbow-chair feeling, which desires 
 some employment that may divert the mind without fa- 
 tiguing the body. 
 
 Under the influence of these impressions, I have some- 
 times thought of this literary undertaking. I must have 
 been the Bonassus himself to have mistaken myself for a 
 genius, yet I have leisure and reflectibns like my neigh- 
 bours. I am a borderer also between two generations, 
 and can point out more perhaps than others of those 
 fading traces of antiquity which are daily vanishing ; and 
 I know many a modern instance and many an old tradi- 
 tion, and therefore I ask — • 
 
 What ails me, I may not, as well as they, 
 
 Rake up some thread-hare tales, that mouldering 1 lay 
 In ehimney corners, wont by Christinas fires 
 To read and rock to sleep our ancient sires ? 
 
 No man his threshold better knows, than I 
 Brute’s first arrival and first victory, 
 
 Saint George’s sorrel and his cross of blood, 
 
 Arthur’s round board and Caledonian wood. 
 
 No shop is so easily set up as an antiquary’s. Like 
 those of the lowest order of pawnbrokers, a commodity 
 of rusty iron, a bag or two of hob-nails, a few odd shoe- 
 buckles, cashiered kail-pots, and fire-irons declared inca- 
 pable of service, are quite sufficient to set him up. If he 
 add a sheaf or two of penny ballads and broadsides, he 
 is a great man— -an extensive trader. And then — like 
 the pawnbrokers aforesaid, if the author understands a 
 little legerdemain, he may, by dint of a little picking and 
 stealing, make the inside of his shop a great deal richer 
 than the out, and be able to ^hovv you things which cause 
 
THE CANONGATE. 
 
 67 
 
 those who do not understand the antiquarian trick of clean 
 conveyance, to wonder how the devil he came by them. 
 
 It may be said, that antiquarian articles interest but few 
 customers, and that we may bawl ourselves as rusty as 
 the wares we deal in without any one asking the price of 
 our merchandize. But I do not rest my hopes upon this 
 department of my labours only. I propose also to have 
 a corresponding shop for Sentiment, and Dialogues, and 
 Disquisition, which may captivate the fancy of those who 
 have no relish, as the established phrase goes, for pure 
 antiquity ; — a sort of green-grocer’s stall erected in front 
 of my ironmongery wares, garlanding the rusty memorials 
 of ancient times with cresses, cabbages, leeks, and water 
 purpy. 
 
 As I have some idea that I am writing too well to be 
 understood, I humble myself to ordinary language, and 
 aver, with becoming modesty, that I do think myself ca- 
 pable of sustaining a publication of a miscellaneous nature, 
 as like to the Spectator, or the Guardian, the Mirror, or 
 the Lounger, as my poor abilities may be able to accom- 
 plish. Not that I have any purpose of imitating Johnson, 
 whose general learning and power of expression I do not 
 deny, but many of whose Ramblers are little better than 
 a sort of pageant, where trite and obvious maxims are 
 made to swagger in lofty and mystic language, and get 
 some credit only because they are not easily understood. 
 There are some of the great moralist’s papers which I 
 cannot peruse without thinking on a second-rate masquer- 
 ade, where the best-known and least-esteemed characters 
 in town march in as heroes, and sultans, and so forth, and 
 by dint of tawdry dresses, get some consideration until 
 they are found out. — It is not, however, prudent to com- 
 mence with throwing stones, just wdien I am striking out 
 windows of my own. 
 
 I think even the local situation of Little Croftangry 
 may be considered as favourable to my undertaking. A 
 nobler contrast there can hardly exist than that of the 
 huge city, dark wit!) the smoke of ages, and groaning with 
 the various sounds of active industry or idle revel, and the 
 
68 
 
 CHRONICLES OF 
 
 lofty and craggy hill, silent and solitary as the grave ; one 
 exhibiting the full tide of existence, pressing and precip- 
 itating itself forward with the force of an inundation , 
 the other resembling some time-worn anchorite, whose 
 life passed as silent and unobserved as the slender rill 
 which escapes unheard, and scarce seen, from the fountain 
 of his patron-saint. The city resembles the busy temple, 
 where the modern Comus and Mammon hold their court, 
 and thousands sacrifice ease, independence, and virtue 
 itself, at their shrine ; the misty and lonely mountain seems 
 as a throne to the majestic but terrible Genius of feudal 
 times, when he dispensed coronets and domains to those 
 who had heads to devise, and arms to execute, bold en- 
 terprizes. 
 
 3 have, as it were, the two extremities of the moral 
 world at my threshold. From the front door, a few min- 
 utes’ walk brings me into the heart of a wealthy and pop- 
 ulous city ; as many paces from my opposite entrance, 
 places me in a solitude as complete as Zimmermann could 
 have desired. Surely with such aids to my imagination, 
 
 I may write better than if 3 were in a lodging in the New 
 Town, or a garret in the old. As the Spaniard says, 
 “ y'iamos-Caracco /” 
 
 3 have not chosen to publish periodically, my reason 
 for which was twofold. 3n the first place, 1 don’t like to 
 be hurried, and have had enough of duns in an early part 
 of my life, to make me reluctant to hear of, or see one, 
 even in the less awful shape of a printer’s devil. But, 
 secondly, a periodical paper is not easily extended in cir- 
 culation beyond the quarter in which it is published. This 
 work, if published in fugitive numbers, would scarce, 
 without a high pressure on the part of the bookseller, be' 
 raised above the Netherbow, and never could be expected 
 to ascend to the level of Princess Street. Now I am 
 ambitious that my compositions, though having their origin 
 in this Valley of Holyrood, should not only be extended 
 into those exalted regions 3 have mentioned, but also that 
 that they should cross the Forth, astonish the long town 
 of Kirkaldy, enchant the skippers and coalliers of the 
 
THE CANONGATE. 
 
 69 
 
 East of Fife, venture even into the classic arcades of St. 
 Andrews, and travel as much farther to the north as the 
 breath of applause will carry their sails. As for a south- 
 ward direction, it is not to be hoped for in my fondest 
 dreams. I am informed that Scotch literature, like Scotch 
 whisky, will be presently laid under a prohibitory duty. — 
 But enough of this. If any reader is dull enough not to 
 comprehend the advantages which, in point of circulation, 
 a compact book has over a collection of fugitive numbers, 
 let him try the range of a gun loaded with hail-shot, 
 against that of the same piece charged with an equal 
 weight of lead consolidated in a single bullet. 
 
 Besides, it was of less consequence that I should have 
 published periodically, since I did not mean to solicit or 
 accept of the contributions of friends, or the criticisms 
 of those who may be less kindly disposed. Notwithstand- 
 ing the excellent examples which might be quoted, I will 
 establish no begging-box, either under the name of a 
 lion’s-head or an ass’s. What is good or ill shall be mine 
 own, or the contribution of friends to whom I may have 
 private access. Many of my voluntary assistants might 
 be cleverer than myself, and then I should have a brilliant 
 article appear among my chiller. effusions, like a patch of 
 lace on a Scotch cloak of Galashiels grey. Some might 
 be worse, and then I must reject them, to the injury of 
 the feelings of the writer, or else insert them, to make my 
 own darkness yet more opaque and palpable. “ Let 
 every herring,” says our old-fashioned proverb, “ hang 
 by his own head.” 
 
 One person, however, I may distinguish, as she is now 
 no more, who, living to the utmost term of human life, 
 honoured me with a great share of her friendship, as in- 
 deed we were blood-relatives in the Scottish sense — 
 Heaven knows how many degrees removed — and friends 
 in the sense of Old England. I mean the late excellent 
 and regretted Mrs. Bethune Baliol. But as I design this 
 admirable picture of the olden time for a principle char- 
 acter in my work, I will only say here, that she knew and 
 approved of my present purpose ; and though she declin- 
 
70 
 
 CHRONICLES OF 
 
 ed to contribute to it while she lived, from a sense of dig- 
 nified retirement, which she thought became her age, sex, 
 and condition in life, she left me some materials for car- 
 rying on my proposed work, which I coveted when I 
 heard her detail them in conversation, and which now, 
 when I have their substance in her own handwriting, 1 ac- 
 count far more valuable than anything I have myself to 
 offer. I hope the mentioning her name in conjunction 
 with my own, will give no offence to any of her numer- 
 ous friends, as it was her own express pleasure that I 
 should employ the manuscripts, which she did me the 
 honour to bequeath me, in the manner in which I have 
 now used them. It must be added, however, that in most 
 cases 1 have disguised names, and in some have added 
 shading and colouring to bring out the narrative. 
 
 Many of my materials, besides these, are derived from 
 friends, living or dead. In some cases they may be in- 
 accurate, and in such I shall be happy to receive, from 
 sufficient authority, the correction of the errors which 
 must creep into traditional documents. The object of the 
 whole publication is, to throw some light on the manners 
 of Scotland as they were, and to contrast them, occasion- 
 ally, with such as now are fashionable in the same country. 
 For my own serious opinion, it is in favour of the present 
 age in many respects, but not in so far as it affords means 
 for exercising the imagination, or exciting the interest 
 which attaches to other times. I am glad to be a writer 
 or a reader in 3 826, but 1 would be most interested in 
 reading or relating what happened from half a century 
 to a century before. We have the best of it. Scenes 
 in which our ancestors thought deeply, acted fiercely, and 
 died desperately, are to us tales to divert the tedium of a 
 winter’s evening, when we are engaged to no party, or 
 beguile a summer’s morning, when it is too scorching to 
 ride or walk. 
 
 Yet I do not mean that my essays and narratives should 
 be limited to Scotland. I pledge myself to no particular 
 line of subjects ) but, on the contrary, say with Burns, 
 
TIIE CANON HATE. 
 
 71 
 
 Perhaps it may turn out a sang, 
 
 Perhaps turn out a sermon. 
 
 1 have only to add, by way of postscript to these prelim- 
 inary chapters, that 1 have had recourse to Moliere’s re- 
 cipe, and read my manuscript over to my old woman, 
 Janet MacEvoy. 
 
 The dignity of being consulted delighted Janet ; and 
 Wilkie, or Allan, would have made a capital sketch of her, 
 as she sat upright in her chair, instead of her ordinary 
 lounging posture, knitting her stocking systematically, as 
 if she meant every twist of her thread, and inclination of 
 the wires, to bear burden to the cadence of my voice. 
 1 am afraid, too, that I myself felt more delight than I 
 ought to have done in my own Composition, and read a 
 little more oratorically than I should have ventured to do 
 before an auditor, of whose applause I was not so secure. 
 And the result did not entirely encourage my plan of cen- 
 sorship. Janet did indeed seriously incline to the account 
 of my previous life, and bestowed some Highland male- 
 dictions more emphatic than courteous on Christie Steele’s 
 reception of a “ shentlemans in distress,” and of her own 
 mistress’s house too. I omitted, for certain reasons, or 
 greatly abridged, what related to herself. But when I 
 came to treat of my general views in publication, I saw 
 poor Janet was entirely thrown out, though, like a jaded 
 hunter, panting, puffing, and short of wind, she endeav- 
 oured at least to keep up with the chase. Or rather her 
 perplexity made her look all the while like a deaf person 
 ashamed of his infirmity, who does not understand a word 
 you are saying, yet desires you to believe that he does un- 
 derstand you, and who is extremely jealous that you sus- 
 pect his incapacity. When she saw that some remark 
 was necessary, she resembled exactly in her criticism the 
 devotee who pitched on the “ sweet word Mesopotamia,” 
 as the most edifying note which she could bring away from 
 a sermon. She indeed hastened to bestow general praise 
 on what she said was all “ very fine but chiefly dwelt 
 on what I had said about Mr. Timmerman, as she was 
 
72 
 
 CHRONICLES OF 
 
 pleased to call the German philosopher, and supposed he 
 must be of the same descent with the Highland clan of 
 M‘Intyre, which signifies Son of the Carpenter. “ And 
 a fery honourable name too — Shanet’s own mither was a 
 M‘Intyre.” 
 
 In short, it was plain the latter part of my introduction 
 was altogether lost on poor Janet ; and so, to have acted 
 up to Moliere’s system, 1 should have cancelled the whole, 
 and written it anew. But I do not know how it is ; I re- 
 tained, I suppose, some tolerable opinion of my own com- 
 position, though Janet did not comprehend it, and felt 
 loath to retrench those delilahs of the imagination, as 
 Dryden calls them, the tropes and figures of which are 
 caviar to the multitude. Besides, I hate the re-writing, 
 as much as Falstaff did the paying back — it is a double 
 labour. So I determined with myself to consult Janet, 
 in future, only on such things as were within the limits of 
 her comprehension, and hazard my arguments and my 
 rhetoric on the public without her imprimatur. I am 
 pretty sure she will “ applaud it done.” And in such 
 narratives as come within her range of thought and feel- 
 ing, I shall, as 1 at first intended, take the benefit of her 
 unsophisticated judgment, and attend to it deferentially — 
 that is, when it happens not to be in peculiar opposition to 
 my own ; for, after all, I say with Almanzor — 
 
 Know that I alone am king of me. 
 
 The reader has now my who and my whereabout, the 
 purpose of the work, and the circumstances under which 
 it is undertaken. He has also a specimen of the author’s 
 talents, and may judge for himself, and proceed, or send 
 back the volume to the bookseller, as his own taste shall 
 determine. 
 
THE CANONGATE. 
 
 73 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 The inoou, were she earth 1}', no nobler. 
 
 Coriolanus. 
 
 When we set out on the jolly voyage of life, what a 
 brave fleet there is around us, as stretching our fresh can- 
 vass to the breeze, all “ ship-shape and Bristol fashion,” 
 pennons flying, music playing, cheering each other as we 
 pass, we are rather amused than alarmed when some awk- 
 ward comrade goes right ashore for want of pilotage ! — 
 Alas ! when the voyage is well spent, and we look about 
 us, toil-worn mariners, how few of our ancient consorts 
 still remain in sight, and they, how torn and wasted, and, 
 like ourselves, struggling to keep as long as possible oft' 
 the fatal shore, against which we are all finally drifting ! 
 
 I felt this very trite but melancholy truth in all its force 
 the other day, when a packet with a black seal arrived, 
 containing a letter addressed to me by my late excellent 
 friend Mrs. Martha Bethune Baliol, and marked with the 
 fatal indorsation, “ To be delivered according to address, 
 after I shall be no more.” A letter from her executors 
 accompanied the packet, mentioning that they had found 
 in her will a bequest to me of a painting of some value, 
 which she stated would just fit the space above my cup- 
 board, and fifty guineas to buy a ring. And thus I sep- 
 arated, with all the kindness which we had maintained for 
 many years, from a friend, who, though old enough to 
 have been the companion of my mother, was yet, in gaiety 
 of spirits, and admirable sweetness of temper, capable of 
 being agreeable, and even animating society, for those 
 who write themselves in the vaward of youth ; an advan- 
 tage which I have lost for these five-and-tbirty years. 
 The contents of the packet I had no difficulty in guess- 
 7 VOL. I. 
 
74 
 
 CHRONICLES OF 
 
 ing, and have partly hinted at them in the last chapter. 
 But to instruct the reader in the particulars, and at the 
 same time to indulge myself with recalling the virtues and 
 agreeable qualities of my late friend, 1 will give a short 
 sketch of her manners and habits. 
 
 Mrs. Martha Bethune Baliol was a person of quality 
 and fortune, as these are esteemed in Scotland. Her 
 family was ancient, and her connexions honourable. She 
 was not fond of specially indicating her exact age, but her 
 juvenile recollections stretched backwards till before the 
 eventful year 1745 ; and she remembered the Highland 
 clans being in possession of the Scottish capital, though 
 probably only as an indistinct vision. Her fortune, inde- 
 pendent by her father’s bequest, was rendered opulent by 
 the death of more than one brave brother, who fell suc- 
 cessively in the service of their country ; so that the 
 family estates became vested in the only surviving child 
 of the ancient house of Bethune Baliol. My intimacy was 
 formed with the excellent lady after this event, and when 
 she was already something advanced in age. 
 
 She inhabited, when in Edinburgh, where she regularly 
 spent the winter season, one of those old hotels, which, 
 till of late, were to be found in the neighbourhood of the 
 Canongate, and of the Palace of Holy rood-house, and 
 which, separated from the street, now dirty and vulgar, by 
 paved courts, and gardens of jsome extent, made amends 
 for an indifferent access, by showing something of aristo- 
 cratic state and seclusion, when you were once admitted 
 within their precincts. They have pulled her house 
 down ; for, indeed, betwixt building and burning, every 
 ancient monument of the Scottish capital is now likely to 
 be utterly demolished. I pause on the recollections of 
 the place, however ; and since nature has denied a pencil 
 when she placed a pen in my hand, I will endeavour to 
 make words answer the purpose of delineation. 
 
 Baliol’s Lodging, so was the mansion named, reared its 
 high stack of chimneys, among which were seen a turret 
 or two, and one of these small projecting platforms called 
 bartizans, above the mean and modern buildings which 
 
TIIE CANONGATE. 
 
 75 
 
 line the south side of the Canongate, towards the lower 
 end of that street, and not distant from the palace. A 
 porte cochere , having a wicket for foot passengers, was, 
 upon due occasion, unfolded by a lame old man, tall, grave, 
 and thin, who tenanted a hovel beside the gate, and acted 
 as porter. To this office he had been promoted by my 
 friend’s charitable feelings for an old soldier, and partly 
 by an idea, that his head, which was a very fine one, bore 
 some resemblance to that of Garrick in the character of 
 Lusignan. He was a man saturnine, silent, and slow in 
 his proceedings, and would never open the porte cochere 
 to a hackney coach ; indicating the wicket with his finger, 
 as the proper passage for all who came in that obscure 
 vehicle, which was not permitted to degrade with its tick- 
 eted presence the dignity of Baliol’s Lodging. I do not 
 think this peculiarity would have met with his lady’s ap- 
 probation, any more than the occasional partiality of Lu- 
 signan, or, as mortals called him, Archy Macready, to a 
 dram. But Mrs. Martha Betlmne Baliol, conscious that, 
 in case of conviction, she could never have prevailed upon 
 herself to dethrone the King of Palestine from the stone 
 bench on which he sat for hours, knitting his stocking, 
 refused, by accrediting the intelligence, even to put him 
 upon his trial ; well judging, that he would observe more 
 wholesome caution if he conceived his character unsus- 
 pected, than if he were detected, and suffered to pass un- 
 punished. For after all, she said, it w-ould be cruel to 
 dismiss an old Highland soldier, for a peccadillo so appro- 
 priate to his country ard profession. 
 
 The stately gate for carriages, or the humble accom- 
 modation for foot passengers, admitted into a narrow and 
 short passage, running between two rows of lime-trees, 
 whose green foliage, during the spring, contrasted strange- 
 ly with the swart complexion of the two walls by the side 
 of which they grew. This access led to the front of the 
 house, which w^as formed by two gable ends, notched, 
 and having their windows adorned with heavy architec- 
 tural ornaments ; they joined each other at right angles; 
 and a half circular tower, which contained the entrance 
 
76 
 
 CHRONICLES OF 
 
 and the staircase, occupied the point of junction, and 
 rounded the acute angle. One of other two sides of the 
 little court, in which there was just sufficient room to 
 turn a carriage, was occupied by some low buildings an- 
 swering the purpose of offices ; the other, by a parapet 
 surrounded by a highly-ornamented iron railing, twined 
 round .with honeysuckle and other parasitical shrubs, 
 which permitted the eye to peep into a pretty suburban 
 garden, extending down to the road called the South Back 
 of the Canongate, and boasting a number of old trees, 
 many flowers, and even some fruit. We must not forget 
 to state, that the extreme cleanliness of the court-yard was 
 such as intimated that mop and pail had done their utmost 
 in that favoured spot, to atone for the general dirt and 
 dinginess of the quarter where the premises were situated. 
 
 Over the doorway were the arms of Bethune and Ba- 
 liol, with various other devices carved in stone ; the door 
 itself was studded with iron nails, and formed of black 
 oak ; an iron rasp,* as it was called, was placed on it, in- 
 stead of a knocker, for the purpose of summoning the 
 attendants. He who usually appeared at the summons, 
 was a smart lad, in a handsome livery, the son of Mrs. 
 Martha’s gardener at Mount Baliol. Now and then a ser- 
 vant girl, nicely but plainly dressed, and fully accoutred 
 with stockings and shoes, would perform this duty ; and 
 twdce or thrice I remember being admitted by Beauffet 
 himself, whose exterior looked as much like that of a 
 clergyman of rank as the butler of a gentleman’s family. 
 He had been valet-de-chambre to the last Sir Richard 
 Bethune Baliol, and w T as a person highly trusted by the 
 present lady. A full stand, as it is called in Scotland, of 
 garments of a dark colour, gold buckles in his shoes, and 
 at the knees of his breeches, with his hair regularly dressed 
 and pow T dered, announced him to be a domestic of trust 
 and importance. His mistress used to say of him, 
 
 He’s sad and civil, 
 
 And suits well for a servant with my fortunes. 
 
 * See Chambers’s Traditions of Edinburgh 
 
THE CANONGATE 
 
 77 
 
 As no one can escape scandal, some said that Beauffet 
 made a rather better tiling of the place than the mod- 
 esty of his old-fashioned wages would, unassisted, have 
 amounted to. But the man was always very civil to me. 
 He had been long in the family ; had enjoyed legacies, 
 and laid by a something of his own, upon which he now 
 enjoys ease with dignity, in as far as his newly-married 
 wife, Tibbie Shortacres, will permit him. 
 
 The Lodging — Dearest reader, if you are tired, pray 
 pass over the next four or five pages — was not by any 
 means so large as its external appearance led people to 
 conjecture. The interior accommodation was much cut 
 up by cross walls and long passages, and that neglect of 
 economizing space which characterizes old Scottish archi- 
 tecture. But there was far more room than my old friend 
 required, even when she had, a$ was often the case, four 
 or five young cousins under her protection ; and 1 believe 
 much of the house was unoccupied. Mrs. Bethune Ba- 
 liol never, in my presence, showed herself so much of- 
 fended, as once with a meddling person who advised her 
 to have the windows of these supernumerary apartments 
 built up, to save the tax. She said in ire, that, while she 
 lived, the light of God should visit the house of her fath- 
 ers ; and while she had a penny, king and country should 
 have their due. Indeed, she was punctiliously loyal, even 
 in that most staggering test of loyalty, the payment of im- 
 posts. Mr. Beauffet told me he was ordered to offer a 
 glass of wine to the person who cqllected the income tax, 
 and that the pW) r man was so overcome by a reception 
 so unwontedly generous, that he had well nigh fainted on 
 the spot. 
 
 You entered by a matted ante-room into the eating par- 
 lour, filled with old-fashioned furniture, and hung with 
 family portraits, which, excepting one of Sir Bernard Be- 
 thune, in James the Sixth’s time, said to be by Jameson, 
 were exce • lingly frightful. A saloon, as it was called, 
 a long narrow chamber, led out of the dining-parlour, 
 and served for a drawing-room. It was a pleasant apart- 
 
78 
 
 CHRONICLES OF 
 
 ment, looking out upon the south flank of Holyrood-house, 
 the gigantic slope of Arthur’s Seat, and the girdle of lofty 
 rocks, called Salisbury Crags; objects so rudely wild, 
 that the mind can hardly conceive them to exist in the 
 vicinage of a populous metropolis. The paintings of the 
 saloon came from abroad, and had some of them much 
 merit. To see the best of them, however, you must be 
 admitted into the very penetralia of the temple, and al- 
 lowed to draw the tapestry at the upper end of the saloon, 
 and enter Mrs. Martha’s own special dressing-room. This 
 was a charming apartment, of which it would be difficult 
 to describe the form, it had so many recesses which were 
 filled up with shelves of ebony, and cabinets of japan and 
 or molu ; some for holding books, of which Mrs. Martha 
 had an admirable collection, some for a display of orna- 
 mental china, others for shells and similar curiosities. In 
 a little niche, half screened by a curtain of crimson silk, 
 was disposed a suit of tilting armour of bright steel, in- 
 laid with silver, which had been worn on some memora- 
 ble occasion by Sir Bernard Bethune, already mentioned ; 
 while over the canopy of the niche, hung the broad-sword 
 with which her father had attempted to change the for- 
 tunes of Britain in 1715, and the spontoon which her 
 elder brother bore when he was leading on a company of 
 the Black Watch at Fontenoy. 
 
 There were some Italian and Flemish pictures of ad- 
 mitted authenticity, a few genuine bronzes and other ob- 
 jects of curiosity, which her brothers or herself had picked 
 up while abroad. In short, it was a place where the idle 
 were tempted to become studious, the studious to grow 
 idle — where the grave might find matter to make them 
 gay, and the gay subjects for gravity. 
 
 That it might maintain some title to its name, I must 
 not forget to say, that the lady’s dressing-room exhibited 
 a superb mirror, framed in silver filigree work ; a beau- 
 tiful toilette, the cover of which was of Flanders lace ; 
 and a set of boxes corresponding in materials and work to 
 the frame of the mirror. 
 
THE CANON GATE . 
 
 79 
 
 This dressing apparatus, however, was mere matter of 
 parade : Mrs. Martha Bethune Baliol always went through 
 the actual duties of the toilette in an inner apartment, 
 which corresponded with her sleeping-room by a small 
 detached staircase. There were, I believe, more than 
 one of those turnpike stairs , as they were called, about 
 the house, by which the public rooms, all of which entered 
 through each other, were accommodated with separate 
 and independent modes of access. In the little boudoir 
 we have described, Mrs. Martha Baliol had her choicest 
 meetings. She kept early hours ; and if you went in the 
 morning, you must not reckon that space of day as ex- 
 tending beyond three o’clock, or four at the utmost. 
 These vigilant habits were attended with some restraint on 
 her visiters, but they were indemnified by your always 
 finding the best society, and the best information, which 
 was to be had for the day in the Scottish capital. With- 
 out at all affecting the blue stocking, she liked books — 
 they amused her — and if the authors were persons of 
 character, she thought she owed them a debt of civility, 
 which she loved to discharge by personal kindness. When 
 she gave a dinner to a small party, which she did now’ 
 and then, she had the good-nature to look for, and the good 
 luck to discover, what sort of people suited each other 
 best, and chose her company as Duke Theseus did his 
 hounds, 
 
 — - match’d in mouth like bells, 
 
 Each under each. 
 
 so that every guest could take his part in the cry ; instead 
 of one mighty Tom of a fellow, like Dr. Johnson, silenc- 
 ing all besides by the tremendous depth of his diapason. 
 On such occasions she offered chere exquise ; and every 
 now and then there was some dish of French, or even 
 Scottish derivation, which, as well as the numerous assort- 
 ment of vins extraordinaires produced by Mr. Beauffet, 
 gave a sort of antique and foreign air to the entertainment, 
 which rendered it more interesting. 
 
80 
 
 CHRONICLES OF 
 
 It was a great thing to be asked to such parties, and 
 not less so to be invited to the early conversazione , which, 
 in spite of fashion, by dint ctf the best coffee, the finest 
 tea, and cliasse cafe that would have called the dead to 
 life, she contrived now and then to assemble in her saloon 
 already mentioned, at the unnatural hour of eight in the 
 evening. At such times, the cheerful old lady seemed to 
 enjoy herself so much in the happiness of her guests, that 
 they exerted themselves in turn to prolong her amusement 
 and their own $ and a certain charm was excited around, 
 seldom to he met with in parties of pleasure, and which 
 was founded on the general desire of every one present 
 to contribute something to the common amusement. 
 
 But although it was a great privilege to be admitted to 
 wait on my excellent friend in the morning, or to be in- 
 vited to her dinner or evening parties, I prized still higher 
 the right which I had acquired, by old acquaintance, of 
 visiting BalioPs Lodging, upon the chance of finding its 
 venerable inhabitant preparing for tea, just about six 
 o'clock in the evening. It was only to two or three old 
 friends that she permitted this freedom, nor was this sort 
 of chance-party ever allowed to extend itself beyond five 
 in number. The answer to those who came later, an- 
 nounced that the company was filled up for the evening ; 
 which had the double effect, of making those who waited 
 on Sirs. Bethune Baliol in this unceremonious manner 
 punctual in observing her hour, and of adding the zest of 
 a little difficulty to the enjoyment of the party. 
 
 It more frequently happened that only one or two per- 
 sons partook of this refreshment on the same evening ; 
 or, supposing the case of a single gentleman, Mrs. Mar- 
 tha, though she did not hesitate to admit him to her bou- 
 doir, after the privilege of the French and the old Scottish 
 school, took care, as she used to say, to preserve all pos- 
 sible propriety, by commanding the attendance of her 
 principal female attendant, Mrs. Alice Lambskin, who 
 might, from the gravity and dignity of her appearance, 
 have sufficed to matronize a whole boarding-school, in- 
 stead of one maiden lady of eighty and upwards. As 
 
THE CANONGATE. 
 
 81 
 
 the weather permitted, Mrs. Alifce sat duly remote from 
 the company in a fauteuil behind the projecting chimney- 
 piece, or in the embrasure of a window, and prosecuted 
 in Carthusian silence, with indefatigable zeal, a piece of 
 embroidery, which seemed no bad emblem of eternity. 
 
 But 1 have neglected all this while to introduce my 
 friend herself to the reader, at least so far as words can 
 convey the peculiarities by which her appearance and con- 
 versation were distinguished. 
 
 A little woman, with ordinary features and an ordinary 
 form, and hair, which in youth had no decided colour, we 
 may believe Mrs. Martha, when she said of herself that 
 she was never remarkable for personal charms ; a modest 
 admission, which was readily confirmed by certain old 
 ladies, hercontemporaries, who, whatever might have been 
 the youthful advantages which they more than hinted had 
 been formally their own share, were now, in personal ap- 
 pearance, as well as in every thing else, far inferior to my 
 accomplished friend. Mrs. Martha’s features had been 
 of a kind which might be said to wear well ; their irreg- 
 ularity was now of little consequence, animated as they 
 were by the vivacity of her conversation ; her teeth were 
 excellent, and her eyes, although inclining to grey, were 
 lively, laughing, and undimmed by time. A slight shade 
 of complexion, more brilliant than her years promised, 
 subjected my friend amongst strangers to the suspicion of 
 having stretched her foreign habits as far as the prudent 
 touch of the rouge. But it was a calumny ; for when 
 telling or listening to an interesting and affecting story, I 
 have seen her colour come and go as if it played on the 
 cheek of eighteen. 
 
 Her hair, whatever its former deficiencies, was now 
 the most beautiful white that time could bleach, and was 
 disposed with some degree of pretension, though in the 
 simplest manner possible, so as to appear neatly smoothed 
 under a cap of Flanders lace, of an old-fashioned, but, 
 as I thought, of a very handsome form, which undoubt- 
 edly has a name, and I would endeavour to recur to it, 
 if I thought it would make my description a bit more in- 
 
82 
 
 CHRONICLES OF 
 
 telligible. I think I have heard her say these favourite 
 caps had been her mother’s, and had come in fashion 
 with a peculiar kind of wig used by the gentlemen about 
 the time of the battle of Ramillies. The rest of her dress 
 was always rather costly and distinguished, especially in 
 the evening. A silk or satin gown of some colour becom- 
 ing her age, and of a form, which, though complying to 
 a certain degree with the present fashion, had always a 
 reference to some more distant period, was garnished with 
 triple ruffles ; her shoes had diamond buckles, and were 
 raised a little at heel, an advantage which, possessed in 
 her youth, she alleged her size would not permit her to 
 forego in her old age. She always wore rings, bracelets, 
 and other ornaments of value, either for the materials or 
 the workmanship ; nay, perhaps she was a little profuse 
 in this species of display. But she wore them as subor- 
 dinate matters, to which the habits of being constantly in 
 high life rendered her indifferent ; she wore them because 
 her rank required it, and thought no more of them as 
 articles of finery, than a gentleman dressed for dinner 
 thinks on his clean linen and well-brushed coat, the con- 
 sciousness of which embarrasses the rustic beau of a 
 Sunday. 
 
 Now and then, however, if a gem or ornament chanced 
 to be noticed for its beauty or singularity, the observation 
 usually led the way to an entertaining account of the man- 
 ner in which it had been acquired, or the person from 
 whom it had descended to its present possessor. On such 
 and similar occasions my old friend spoke willingly, which 
 is not uncommon, but she also, which is more rare, spoke 
 remarkably well, and had in her little narratives concern- 
 ing foreign parts, or former days, which formed an inter- 
 esting part of her conversation, the singular art of dismis- 
 sing all the usual protracted tautology respecting time, 
 place, and circumstances, which is apt to settle like a mist 
 upon the cold and languid tales of age, and at the same 
 time of bringing forward, dwelling upon, and illustrating, 
 those incidents and characters which give point and in- 
 terest to the story. 
 
THE CANONGATE. 
 
 83 
 
 She had, as we have hinted, travelled a good deal in 
 foreign countries; for a brother, to whom she was much 
 attached, had been sent upon various missions of national 
 importance to the continent, and she had more than once 
 embraced the opportunity of accompanying him. This 
 furnished a great addition to the information which she 
 could supply, especially during the last war, when the con- 
 tinent was for so many years hermetically sealed against 
 the English nation. But, besides, Mrs. Bethune Baliol 
 visited distant countries, not as is the modern fashion, when 
 English travel in caravans together, and see in France 
 and Italy little besides the same society which they might 
 have enjoyed at home. On the contrary, she mingled 
 when abroad with the natives of those countries she visited, 
 and enjoyed at once the advantage of their society, and 
 the pleasure of comparing it with that of Britain. 
 
 In the course of her becoming habituated with foreign 
 manners, Mrs. Bethune Baliol had, perhaps, acquired 
 some slight tincture of them herself. Yet 1 was al- 
 ways persuaded, that the peculiar vivacity of look and 
 manner — the pointed and appropriate action with* which 
 she accompanied what she said — the use of the gold and 
 gemmed t abaticre , or rather I should say bonbonniere , 
 (for she took no snuff, and the little box contained only a 
 few 7 pieces of candied angelica, or some such lady-like 
 sweetmeat,) were of real old-fashioned Scottish growth, 
 and such as might have graced the tea-table of Susannah, 
 Countess of Eglinton, the patroness of Allan Ramsay, or 
 of the Hon. Mrs. Colonel Ogilvy, who was another mirror 
 by whom the maidens of Auld Reekie were required to 
 dress themselves. Although well acquainted with the 
 customs of other countries, her manners had been chiefly 
 formed in her own, at a time when great folk lived within 
 little space, and when the distinguished names of the high- 
 est society gave to Edinburgh the eclat , which we now 
 endeavour to derive from the unbounded expense and ex- 
 tended circle of our pleasures. 
 
 I was more confirmed in this opinion, by the peculiarity 
 of the dialect which Mrs. Baliol used. It was Scottish, 
 
84 
 
 CHRONICLES OF 
 
 decidedly Scottish, often containing phrases and words 
 little used in the present day. But then her tone and mode 
 of pronunciation were as different from the usual accent 
 of the ordinary Scotch patois , as the accent of St. James’s 
 is from that of Billingsgate. The vowels were not pro- 
 nounced much broader than in the Italian language, and 
 there was none of the disagreeable drawl which is so of- 
 fensive to southern ears, in short, it seemed to be the 
 Scottish as spoken by the ancient court of Scotland, to 
 which no idea of vulgarity could be attached ; and the 
 lively manner and gestures with which it was accompa- 
 nied, were so completely in accord with the sound of the 
 voice and the manner of talking, that 1 cannot assign them 
 a different origin. Jn long derivation, perhaps the manner 
 of the Scottish court might have been originally formed 
 on that of France, to which it had certainly some affinity ; 
 but 1 will live and die in the belief, that those of Mrs. 
 Baliol, as pleasing as they were peculiar, came to her by 
 direct descent from the high dames who anciently adorned 
 with their presence the royal halls of Holy rood. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 Such as I have described Mrs. Bethune Baliol, the 
 reader will easily believe that when I thought of the mis- 
 cellaneous nature of my work, I rested upon the informa- 
 tion she possessed, and her communicative disposition, as 
 one of the principal supports of my enterprize. Indeed, 
 she by no means disapproved of my proposed publication, 
 though expressing herself very doubtful how far she could 
 personally assist it ; a doubt which might be perhaps set 
 down to a little lady-like coquetry, which required to be 
 sued for the boon she was not unwilling to grant. Or, 
 perhaps, the good old lady, conscious that her unusual 
 
THE CANON GATE. 
 
 85 
 
 term of years must soon draw to a close, preferred be- 
 queathing the materials in the shape of a legacy, to sub- 
 jecting them to the judgment of a critical public during 
 her lifetime. 
 
 Many a time I used, in our conversations of the Can- 
 ongate, to resume my request of an assistance, from a sense 
 that my friend was the most valuable depositary of Scot- 
 tish traditions that was probably now to be found. This 
 was a subject on which my mind was so much made up, 
 that when 1 heard her carry her description of manners so 
 far back beyond her own time, and describe how Fletcher 
 of Salton spoke, how Graham of Claverhouse danced, 
 what were the jewels worn by the famous Duchess of 
 Lauderdale, and how she came by them, I 'could not help 
 telling her 1 thought her some fairy, who cheated us by 
 retaining the appearance of a mortal of our own day, 
 when, in fact, she had witnessed the revolutions of cen- 
 turies. She was much diverted when I required her to 
 take some solemn oath that she had not danced at the balls 
 given by Mary of Este, when her unhappy husband oc- 
 cupied Holyrood in a species of honourable banishment ; 
 — or asked, whether she could not recollect Charles the 
 Second, when he came to Scotland in 1650, and did not 
 possess some slight recollections of the bold usurper, who 
 drove him beyond the Forth. 
 
 “ Beau cousin ,” she said, laughing, “ none of these do 
 I remember personally ; but you must know there has 
 been wonderful little change on my natural temper from 
 youth to age. From which it follows, cousin, that being 
 even now something too young in spirit for the years 
 which Time has marked me in his calendar, I was, when 
 a girl, a little too old for those of my own standing, and as 
 much inclined at that period to keep the society of elder 
 persons, as I am now disposed to admit the company of 
 gay young fellows of fifty or sixty like yourself, rather than 
 collect about me all the octogenarians. Now, although I 
 do not actually come from Elfland, and therefore cannot 
 boast any personal knowledge of the great personages you 
 
 8 VOL. I. 
 
86 
 
 CHRONICLES OF 
 
 inquire about, yet I have seen and heard those who knew 
 them well, and who have given me as distinct an account 
 of them as I could give you myself of the Empress 
 Queen, or Frederick of Prussia ; and I will frankly add,” 
 said she, laughing and offering her bonbonniere , “ that I 
 have heard so much of the years which immediately suc- 
 ceeded the Revolution, that I sometimes am apt to con- 
 fuse the vivid descriptions fixed on my memory by the 
 frequent and animated recitation of others, for things which 
 I myself have actually witnessed. I caught myself hut 
 
 yesterday describing to Lord M the riding of the last 
 
 Scottish Parliament, with as much minuteness as if I had 
 seen it, as my mother did, from the balcony in front of 
 Lord Moray’s Lodging in the Canongate.” 
 
 “ I am sure you must have given Lord M a high 
 
 treat.” 
 
 “ I treated him to a hearty laugh, I believe,” she re- 
 plied ; “ hut it is you, you vile seducer of youth, who lead 
 me into such follies. But I will be on my guard against 
 my own weakness. I do not well know if the wandering 
 Jew is supposed to have a wife, but I should be sorry a 
 decent middle-aged Scottish gentlewoman should be sus- 
 pected of identity with such a supernatural person.” 
 
 “ For all that, I must torture you a little more, mu belle 
 cousine , with my interrogatories ; for how shall 1 ever turn 
 author unless on the strength of the information which you 
 have so often procured me on the ancient state of man- 
 ners 9” 
 
 “ Stay, I cannot allow you to give your points of in- 
 quiry a name so very venerable, if I am expected to an- 
 swer them. Ancient is a term for antediluvians. You 
 may catechise me about the battle of Flodden, or ask 
 particulars about Bruce and Wallace, under pretext of 
 curiosity after ancient manners ; and that last subject 
 would wake my Baliol blood you know.” 
 
 “ Well, but, Mrs. Baliol, suppose we settle our sera : — 
 you do not call the accession of James the Sixth to the 
 kingdom of Britain very ancient *?” 
 
THE CANON GATE* 
 
 87 
 
 “ Umph ! no, cousin — I think I can tell you more of 
 that than folk now-a-days remember, — for instance, that 
 as James was trooping towards England, bag and baggage, 
 his journey was stopped near Coekenzie by meeting the 
 funeral of the Earl of Winton, the old and faithful ser- 
 vant and follower of his ill-fated mother, poor Id ary ! It 
 was an ill omen for the infare , and so was seen of it, 
 cousin.” 
 
 I did not choose to prosecute this subject, well knowing 
 Mrs. Bethune Baliol did not like to be much pressed on 
 the subject of the Stuarts, whose misfortunes she pitied, 
 the rather that her father had espoused their cause. And 
 yet her attachment to the present dynasty being very sin- 
 cere, and even ardent, more especially as her family had 
 served his late Majesty both in peace and war, she 
 experienced a little embarrassment in reconciling her 
 opinions respecting the exiled family, with those she en- 
 tertained for the present. In fact, like many an old Jaco- 
 bite, she was contented to be somewhat inconsistent on 
 the subject, comforting herself, that now everything stood 
 as it ought to do, and that there was no use in looking 
 back narrowly on the right or wrong of the matter half a 
 century ago. 
 
 “ The Highlands,” I suggested, “ should furnish you 
 with ample subjects of recollection. You have witnessed 
 the complete change of that primeval country, and have 
 seen a race not far removed from the earliest period of 
 society, melted down into the great mass of civilization ; 
 and that could not happen without incidents striking in 
 themselves, and curious as chapters in the history of the 
 human race.” 
 
 “ It is very true,” said Mrs. Baliol ; “ one would think 
 it should have struck the observers greatly, and yet it 
 scarcely did so. For me, I was no Highlander myself, 
 and the Highland chiefs of old, of whom I certainly knew 
 several, had little in their manners to distinguish them 
 from the Lowland gentry, when they mixed in society in 
 Edinburgh, and assumed the Lowland dress. Their pe- 
 culiar character was for the clansmen at home ; and you 
 
88 ‘ 
 
 CHRONICLES OF 
 
 must not imagine that they swaggered about in plaids and 
 broadswords at the Cross, or come to the Assembly- 
 Rooms in bonnets and kilts.” 
 
 “ 1 remember,” said 1, “ that Swift, in his Journal, 
 tells Stella he had dined in the house of a Scotch noble- 
 man, with two Highland chiefs, whom he had found as 
 well-bred men as he had ever met with.” 
 
 “ Very likely,” said my friend. “ The extremes of 
 society approach much more closely to each other than 
 perhaps the Dean of Saint Patrick’s expected. The sav- 
 age is always to a certain degree polite. Besides, going 
 always armed, and having a very punctilious idea of their 
 own gentility and consequence, they usually behaved to 
 each other and to the Lowlanders, with a good deal of 
 formal politeness, which sometimes even procured them 
 the character of insincerity.” 
 
 “ Falsehood belongs to an early period of society, as 
 well as the deferential forms which we style politeness,” I 
 replied. “ A child does not see the least moral beauty 
 in truth, until he has been flogged half-a-dozen times. 
 It is so easy, and apparently so natural, to deny what we 
 cannot be easily convicted of, that a savage as well as a 
 child lies to excuse himself, almost as instinctively as he 
 raises his hand to protect his head. The old saying, 
 ‘ confess and be hanged,’ carries much argument in it. I 
 observed a remark the other day in old Birrel. He men- 
 tions that M‘Gregor of Glenstrae and some of his people 
 had surrendered themselves to one of the Earls of Argyle, 
 upon the express condition that they should be conveyed 
 safe into England. The Maccallan Mhorof the day kept 
 the word of promise, but it was only to the ear. He in- 
 deed sent his captives to Berwick, where they had an 
 airing on the other side of the Tweed, but it was under 
 the custody of a strong guard, by whom they were brought 
 back to Edinburgh, and delivered to the executioner. 
 This, Birrel calls keeping a Highlandman’s promise.” 
 “Well,” replied Mrs. Baliol, “ I might add, that many 
 of the Highland chiefs whom I knew in former days had 
 been brought up in France, which might improve their 
 
THE CANONGATE. 
 
 89 
 
 politeness, though perhaps it did not amend their insincer- 
 ity. But considering, that, belonging to the depressed 
 and defeated faction in the state, they were compelled 
 sometimes to use dissimulation, you must set their uniform 
 fidelity to their friends against their occasional falsehood 
 to their enemies, and then you will not judge poor John 
 Highlandman too severely. They were in a state of so- 
 ciety where bright lights are strongly contrasted with deep 
 shadows.” 
 
 “ It is to that point I would bring you, ma belle cousine , 
 — and therefore they are most proper subjects for com- 
 position.” 
 
 “ And you want to turn composer, my good friend, 
 and set my old tales to some popular tune 9 But there 
 have been too many composers, if that be the word, in 
 the field before. The Highlands were indeed a rich mine ; 
 but they have, I think, been fairly wrought out, as a good 
 tune is grinded into vulgarity when it descends to the 
 hurdy-gurdy and the barrel-organ.” 
 
 “ If it be a real good tune,” I replied, “ it will recover 
 its better qualities when it gets into the hands of better 
 artists.” 
 
 “ Umph !” said Mrs. Baliol, tapping her box, “ we 
 are happy in our own good opinion this evening, Mr. 
 Croftangry. And so you think you can restore the gloss 
 to the tartan, which it has lost by being dragged through 
 so many fingers 9 
 
 “ With your assistance to procure materials, my dear 
 lady, much, I think, may be done.” 
 
 “ Well — I must do my best, I suppose ; though all 1 
 know about the Gael is but of little consequence — In- 
 deed, I gathered it chiefly from Donald MacLeish.” 
 
 “ And who might Donald MacLeish be 9” > 
 
 “ Neither bard nor seannachie, I assure you, nor monk 
 nor hermit, the approved authorities for old traditions. 
 Donald was as good a postillion as ever drove a chaise and 
 pair between Glencroe and Inverary. I assure you, when 
 I give you my Highland anecdotes, you will hear much of 
 S* VOL. i. 
 
90 
 
 CHRONICLES OF 
 
 Donald MacLeish. He was Alice Lambskin’s beau and 
 mine through a long Highland tour.” 
 
 “ But when am I to possess these anecdotes'? — you 
 answer me as Harley did poor Prior — 
 
 Let that be done which Mat doth say. 
 
 * Yea/ quoth the Earl, * but not to-day. ; ” 
 
 “ Well, mon beau cousin , if you begin to remind me of 
 my cruelty, I must remind you it has struck nine On the 
 Abbey clock, and it is time you were going home to 
 Little Croftangry. For my promise to assist your anti- 
 quarian researches, be assured, I will one day keep it 
 to the utmost extent. It shall not be a Highlandman’s 
 promise, as your old citizen calls it.” 
 
 I by this time suspected the purpose of my friend’s 
 procrastination ; and it saddened my heart to reflect that 
 I was not to get the information which I desired, except- 
 ing in the shape of a legacy. I found accordingly, in the 
 packet transmitted to me after the excellent lady’s death, 
 several anecdotes respecting the Highlands, from which I 
 have selected that which follows, chiefly on account of its 
 possessing great power over the feelings of my critical 
 housekeeper, Janet M‘Evoy, who wept most bitterly when 
 1 read it to her. 
 
 It is, however, but a very simple tale, and may have no 
 interest for persons beyond Janet’s rank of life or under- 
 standing. 
 
THE CANONGATE. 
 
 91 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 5TIj t ffijtfifjlauii SSUtJGto. 
 
 It wound as near as near could be, 
 
 But what it is she cannot tell ; 
 
 On the other side it seemed to be, 
 
 Of the huge broad-breasted old oak tree. 
 
 Coleridge. 
 
 Mrs.Bethune Baliol’s memorandum begins thus: — 
 
 It is five and thirty, or perhaps nearer forty years ago, 
 since, to relieve the dejection of spirits occasioned by a 
 great family loss sustained two or three months before, I 
 undertook what was called the short Highland tour. This 
 had become in some degree fashionable ; but though the 
 military roads were excellent, yet the accommodation was 
 so indifferent that it was reckoned a little adventure to 
 accomplish it. Besides, the Highlands, though now as 
 peaceable as any part of King George’s dominions, was a 
 sound which still carried terror, while so many survived 
 who had witnessed the insurrection of 1745 ; and a 
 vague idea of fear was impressed on many, as they look- 
 ed from the towers of Stirling northward to the huge 
 chain of mountains, which rises like a dusky rampart to 
 conceal in its recesses a people, whose dress, manners, 
 and language, differed still very much from those of their 
 Lowland countrymen. For my part, I come of a race 
 not greatly subject to apprehensionsarising from imagina- 
 tion only. I had some Highland relatives, knew several 
 of their families of distinction ; and, having only the 
 company of my bower-maiden Mistress Alice Lambskin, 
 I went on my journey fearless, though without an escort. 
 
 But then I had a guide and cicerone, almost equal to 
 Greatheart in the Pilgrim’s Progress, in no less a person 
 than Donald MacLeish, the postillion whom I hired at 
 
92 
 
 CHRONICLES OE 
 
 Stirling, with a pair of able-bodied horses, as steady as 
 Donald himself, to drag iny carriage, my duenna, and 
 myself, wheresoever it was my pleasure to go. 
 
 Donald MacLeish was one of a race of post-boys, 
 whom, I suppose, mail-coaches and steam-boats have put 
 out'of fashion. They were to be found chiefly at Perth, 
 Stirling, or Glasgow, where they and their horses were 
 usually hired by travellers, or tourists, to accomplish 
 such journeys of business or pleasure as they might 
 have to perform in the land of the Gael. This class of 
 persons approached to the character of what is called 
 abroad a conducteur ; or might be compared to the sail- 
 ing-master on board a British ship of war, who follows out 
 after his own manner the course which the captain com- 
 mands him to observe. You explained to your postillion 
 the length of your tour, and the objects you were desirous 
 it should embrace ; and you found him perfectly compe- 
 tent to fix the places of rest or refreshment, with due at- 
 tention that those should be chosen with reference to your 
 convenience, and to any points of interest which you 
 might desire to visit. 
 
 The qualifications of such a person were necessarily 
 much superior to those of the “ first ready,” who gallops 
 thrice a-day over the same ten miles. Donald MacLeish, 
 besides being quite alert at repairing all ordinary acci- 
 dents to his horses and carriage, and in making shift to 
 support them, where forage was scarce, with such substi- 
 tutes as bannocks and cakes, was likewise a man of in- 
 tellectual resources. He had acquired a general know- 
 ledge of the traditional stories of the country which he 
 had traversed so often ; and, if encouraged, (for Donald 
 was a man of the most decorous reserve,) he would wil- 
 lingly point out to you the site of the principal clan-bat- 
 tles, and recount the most remarkable legends by which 
 the road, and the objects which occurred in travelling it, 
 had been distinguished. There was some originality in 
 the man’s habits of thinking and expressing himself, his 
 turn for legendary lore strangely contrasting with a por- 
 tion of the knowing shrewdness belonging to his actual 
 
THE CANONGATE. 
 
 93 
 
 occupation, which made his conversation amuse the way 
 well enough. 
 
 Add to this, Donald knew all his peculiar duties in the 
 country which he traversed so frequently. He could 
 tell, to a day, when they would “ be killing” lamb at 
 Tyndrum or Glenuilt ; so that the stranger would have 
 some chance of being fed like a Christian ; and knew to 
 a mile the last village where it was possible to procure a 
 wheaten loaf, for the guidance of those who were little 
 familiar with the Land of Cakes. He was acquainted 
 with the road every mile, and could tell to an inch which 
 side of a Highland bridge was passable, which decidedly 
 dangerous.* In short, Donald MacLeish was not only 
 our faithful attendant and steady servant, but our humble 
 and obliging friend ; and though I have known the half- 
 classical cicerone of Italy, the talkative French valet-de- 
 place, and even the muleteer of Spain, who piques himself 
 on being a maize-eater, and whose honour is not to be 
 questioned without danger, I do not think I have ever had 
 so sensible and intelligent a guide. 
 
 Our motions were of course under Donald’s direction ; 
 and it frequently happened, when the weather was serene, 
 that we preferred halting to rest his horses even where 
 there was no established stage, and taking our refresh- 
 ment under a crag, from which leaped a waterfall, or be- 
 side the verge of a fountain, enamelled with verdant turf 
 and wild flowers. Donald had an eye for such spots, and 
 though he had, I dare say, never read Gil Bias or Don 
 Quixote, yet he chose such halting-places as Le Sage or 
 Cervantes would have described. - Very often, as he 
 observed the pleasure I took in conversing with the coun- 
 try people, he would manage to fix our place of rest near 
 a cottage where there was some old Gael, whose broad- 
 sword had blazed at Falkirk or Preston, and who seemed 
 the frail yet faithful record of times which had passed 
 
 * This is, or was at least, a necessary accomplishment. In one of the most 
 beautiful districts of the Highlands was, not many years since, abridge bearing 
 this startling caution. “ Keep to the right side, the left being dangerous.” 
 
94 
 
 CHRONICLES OF 
 
 away. Or he would contrive to quarter us, as far as a 
 cup of tea went, upon the hospitality of some parish min- 
 ister of worth and intelligence, or some country family of 
 the better class, who mingled with the wild simplicity of 
 their original manners, and their ready and hospitable 
 welcome, a sort of courtesy belonging to a people, the 
 lowest of whom are accustomed to consider themselves 
 as being, according to the Spanish phrase, “ as good gen- 
 tlemen as the king, only not quite so rich.” 
 
 To all such persons Donald MacLeish was well known, 
 and his introduction passed as current as if we had brought 
 letters from some high chief of the country. 
 
 Sometimes it happened that the Highland hospitality, 
 which welcomed us with all variety of mountain fare, 
 preparations of milk and eggs, and girdle-cakes of various 
 kinds, as well as more substantial dainties, according to 
 the inhabitant’s means of regaling the passenger, de- 
 scended rather too exuberantly on Donald MacLeish in 
 the shape of mountain dew. Poor Donald ! he was on 
 such occasions like Gideon’s fleece, moist with the noble 
 element, which, of course, fell not on us. But it was his 
 only fault, and when pressed to drink doch-an-dorroch 
 to my ladyship’s good health, it would have been ill taken 
 to have refused the pledge, nor was he willing to do such 
 discourtesy. It was, I repeat, his only fault, nor had we 
 any great right to complain ; for if it rendered him a little 
 more talkative, it augmented his ordinary share of punc- 
 tilious civility, and he only drove slower, and talked long- 
 er and more pompously than tvhen he had not come by 
 a drop of usquebaugh. It was, we remarked/ only on 
 such occasions that Donald talked with an air of import- 
 ance of the family of MacLeish ; and we had no title to 
 be scrupulous in censuring a foible, the consequences of 
 which were confined within such innocent limits. 
 
 We became so much accustomed to Donald’s mode of 
 managing us, that we observed with some interest the art 
 which he used to produce a little agreeable surprise, by 
 concealing from us the spot w 7 here he proposed our halt 
 to be made, when it was of an unusual and interesting 
 
TIIE CANONGATE. 
 
 95 
 
 character. This was so much his wont, that when he 
 made apologies at setting off, for being obliged to stop in 
 some strange solitary place, till the horses should eat the 
 corn which he brought on with them for that purpose, 
 our imagination used to be on the stretch to guess what 
 romantic retreat he had secretly fixed upon for our noon- 
 tide baiting-place. 
 
 We had spent the greater part of the morning at the 
 delightful village of Dalmally, and had gone upon the 
 lake under the guidance of the excellent clergyman 
 who was then incumbent at Glenorquhy, and had heard 
 an hundred legends of the stern chiefs of Lochawe, Dun- 
 can with the thrum bonnet, and the other lords of the now 
 mouldering towers of Kilchurn. Thus it was later than 
 usual when we set out on our journey, after a hint or two 
 from Donald concerning the length of the way to the 
 next stage, as there was no good halting-place between 
 Dalmally and Oban. 
 
 Having bid adieu to our venerable and kind cicerone, 
 we proceeded on our tour, winding round the tremen- 
 dous mountain called Cruachan Ben, which rushes down in 
 all its majesty of rocks and wilderness on the lake, leaving 
 only a pass, in which, notwithstanding its extreme strength, 
 the warlike clan of MacDougal of Lorn were almost de- 
 stroyed by the sagacious Robert Bruce. That King, the 
 Wellington of his day, had accomplished, by a forced 
 march, the unexpected manoeuvre of forcing a body of 
 troops round the other side of the mountain, and thus 
 placed them in the flank and in the rear of the men of 
 Lorn, whom at the same time he attacked in front. The 
 great number of cairns yet visible, as you descend the 
 pass on the westward side, shows the extent of the ven- 
 geance which Bruce exhausted on his inveterate and per- 
 sonal enemies. I am, you know, the sister of soldiers, 
 and it has since struck me forcibly that the manoeuvre 
 which Donald described, resembled those of Wellington 
 or of Bonaparte. He was a great man Robert Bruce, 
 even a Baliol must admit that ; although it begins now to 
 be allowed that his title to the crown was scarce so good 
 
96 
 
 CHRONICLE S OF 
 
 as that of the unfortunate family with whom he contend- 
 ed — But let that pass. — The slaughter had been the 
 greater, as the deep and rapid river Awe is disgorged 
 from the lake, just in the rear of the fugitives, and encir- 
 cles the base of the tremendous mountain ; so that the 
 retreat of the unfortunate fugitives was intercepted on all 
 sides by the inaccessible character of the country, which 
 had seemed to promise them defence and protection. 
 
 Musing, like the Irish lady in the song, “ upon things 
 which are long enough a-gone,” we felt no impatience at 
 the slow, and almost creeping pace, with which our con- 
 ductor proceeded along General Wade’s military road, 
 which never or rarely condescends to turn aside from the 
 steepest ascent, but proceeds right up and down hill, with 
 the indifference to height and hollow, steep or level, indi- 
 cated by the old Roman engineers. Still, however, the 
 substantial excellence of these great works — for such are 
 the military highways in the Highlands — deserved the 
 compliment of the poet, who, whether he came from our 
 sister kingdom, and spoke in his own dialect, or whether 
 he supposed those whom he addressed might have some 
 national pretension to the second sight, produced the cel- 
 ebrated couplet — 
 
 Had you but seen these roads before they were made, 
 
 You would hold up your hands, and bless General Wade. 
 
 Nothing indeed can be more wonderful than to see these 
 wildernesses penetrated and pervious in every quarter by 
 broad accesses of the best possible construction, and so 
 superior to what the country could have demanded for 
 many centuries for any pacific purpose of commercial 
 intercourse. Thus the traces of war are sometimes hap- 
 pily accommodated to the purposes of peace. The vic- 
 tories of Bonaparte have been without results ; but his 
 road over the Simplon will long be the communication 
 betwixt peaceful countries, who will apply to the ends of 
 commerce and friendly intercourse that gigantic work, 
 which was formed for the ambitious purpose of warlike 
 invasion. 
 
THE CANONGATE. 
 
 97 
 
 While we were thus stealing along, we gradually turn- 
 ed round the shoulder of Ben Cruachan, and descending 
 the course of the foaming and rapid Awe, left behind us 
 the expanse of the majestic lake which gives birth to that 
 impetuous river. The rocks and precipices which stoop- 
 ed down perpendicularly on our path on the right hand, 
 exhibited a few remains of the wood which once clothed 
 them, but which had, in latter times, been felled to sup- 
 ply, Donald MacLeish informed us, the iron-founderies at 
 Bunawe. This made us fix our eyes with interest on one 
 large oak, which grew on the left hand towards the river. 
 It seemed a tree of extraordinary magnitude and pictur- 
 esque beauty, and stood just where there appeared to be 
 a few roods of open ground lying among huge stones, 
 which had rolled down from the mountain. To add to 
 the romance of the situation, the spot of clear ground 
 extended round the foot of a proud-browed rock, from 
 the summit of which leaped a mountain stream in a fall 
 of sixty feet, in which it was dissolved into foam and dew. 
 At the bottom of the fall the rivulet with difficulty col- 
 lected, like a routed general, its dispersed forces, and, as 
 if tamed by its descent, found a noiseless passage through 
 the heath to join the Awe. # 
 
 I was much struck with the tree and waterfall, and 
 wished myself nearer them ; not that I thought of sketch- 
 book or portfolio, — for, in my younger days, Misses were 
 not accustomed to black-lead pencils, unless they could 
 use them to some good purpose, — but merely to indulge 
 myself with a closer view. Donald immediately opened 
 the chaise door, but observed it was rough walking down 
 the brae, and that I would see the tree better by keeping 
 the road for a hundred yards farther, when it passed closer 
 to the spot, for which he seemed, however, to have no 
 predilection. “ He knew,” he said, “ a far bigger tree 
 than that nearer Bunawe, and it was a place where there 
 was flat ground for the carriage to stand, which it could 
 jimply do on these braes ; — but just as my leddyship 
 liked.” 
 
 9 VOL. I. 
 
98 
 
 CHRONICLES OF 
 
 My ladyship did choose rather to look at the fine tree 
 before me, than to pass it by \n hopes of a finer ; so we 
 walked beside the carriage till we should come to a point, 
 from which, Donald assured us, we might, without scram- 
 bling, go as near the tree as we chose, “ though he wadna 
 advise us to go nearer than the high road.” 
 
 There was something grave and mysterious in Donald’s 
 sun-browned countenance when he gave us this intima- 
 tion, and » his manner was so different from his usual 
 frankness, that my female curiosity was set in motion. 
 We walked on the whilst, and I found the tree, of which 
 we had now lost sight by the intervention of some rising 
 ground, was really more distant than 1 had at first suppos- 
 ed. “I could have sworn now,” said I to my cicerone, 
 ££ that yon tree and waterfall was the very place where 
 you intended to make a stop to-day.” 
 
 “ The Lord forbid !” said Donald, hastily. 
 
 “ And for what, Donald ? why should you be willing 
 to pass so pleasant a spot?” 
 
 “ It’s ower near Dalmally, my leddy, to corn the beasts 
 — it w T ould bring their dinner ower near their breakfast, 
 poor things : — an’, besides, the place is not canny.” 
 
 “ Oh ! then the mystery is out. There is a bogle or 
 a brownie, a witch or a gyre-carlin, a bodach or a fairy, 
 in the case ?” 
 
 “ The ne’er a bit, my leddy — ye are clean aff the 
 road, as I may say. But if your leddyship will just hae 
 patience, and wait till we are by the place and out of the 
 glen, I’ll tell ye all about it. There is no much luck in 
 speaking of such things in the place they chanced in.” 
 
 I was obliged to suspend my curiosity, observing, that 
 if I persisted in twisting the discourse one way while 
 Donald was twining it another, I should make his objec- 
 tion, like a hempen cord, just so much the tougher. At 
 length the promised turn of the road brought us within 
 fifty paces of the tree which I desired to admire, and I 
 now saw, to my surprise, that there was a human habita- 
 tion among the cliffs which surrounded it. It was a hut 
 of the least dimensions, and most miserable description; 
 
THE CANON GATE. 
 
 99 
 
 that I ever saw even in the Highlands. The walls of sod, 
 or divot, as the Scotch call it, were not four feet high — 
 the roof was of turf, repaired with reeds and sedges — 
 the chimney, was composed of clay, bound round by straw 
 ropes — and the whole walls, roof and chimney, were alike 
 covered with the vegetation of house-leek, rye-grass, and 
 moss, common to decayed cottages lormed of such mate- 
 rials. There was not the slightest vestige of a kale-yard, 
 the usual accompaniment of the very worst huts ; and of 
 living things we saw nothing, save a kid which was brows- 
 ing on the roof of the hut, and a goat, its mother, at some 
 distance, feeding betwixt the oak and the river Awe. 
 
 “ What man,” I could not help exclaiming, “ can have 
 committed sin deep enough to deserve such a miserable 
 dwelling !” 
 
 “ Sin enough,” said Donald MacLeish, with a half- 
 suppressed groan ; “ and God he knoweth, misery enough 
 too ; — and it is no man’s dwelling neither, but a wo- 
 man’s.” 
 
 “ A woman’s !” I repeated, u and in so lonely a place 
 — What sort of a woman can she be *?” 
 
 “ Come this way, my leddy, and you may judge that 
 for yourself,” said Donald. And by advancing a few 
 steps, and making a sharp turn to the left, we gained a 
 sight of the side of the great broad-breasted oak, in the 
 direction opposed to that in which we had hitherto seen it. 
 
 “ If she keeps her old wont, she will be there at this 
 hour of the day,” said Donald ; but immediately became 
 silent, and pointed with his finger, as one afraid of being 
 overheard. I looked, and beheld, not without some 
 sense of awe, a female form seated by the stem of the 
 oak, with her head drooping, her hands clasped, and a 
 dark-coloured mantle drawn over her head, exactly as 
 Judah is represented in the Syrian medals as seated 
 under her palm-tree. I was infected with the fear and 
 reverence which my guide seemed to entertain towards 
 this solitary being, nor did I think of advancing towards 
 her to obtain a nearer view until I had cast an inquiring 
 
100 
 
 CHRONICLES OF 
 
 look on Donald ; to which he replied in a half whisper — 
 “ She has been a fearfu’ bad woman, my leddy.” 
 
 “ Mad woman, said you,” replied I, hearing him im- 
 perfectly ; “ then she is perhaps dangerous T 5 
 
 “ No — she is not mad,” replied Donald ; “ for then 
 it may be she would be happier than she is ; though when 
 she thinks on what she has done, and caused to be done, 
 rather than yield up a hair-breadth of her ain wicked 
 will, it is not likely she can be very well settled. But 
 she neither is mad nor mischievous ; and yet, my leddy, 
 I think you had best not go nearer to her.” And then, 
 in a few hurried words, he made me acquainted with the 
 story which I am now to tell more in detail. I heard the 
 narrative with a mixture of horror and sympathy, which 
 at once impelled me to approach the sufferer, and speak 
 to her the words of comfort, or rather of pity, and at the 
 same time made me afraid to do so. 
 
 This indeed was the feeling with which she was regard- 
 ed by the Highlanders in the neighbourhood, who looked 
 upon Elspat MacTavisb, or the Woman of the Tree, as 
 they called her, as the Greeks considered those who were 
 pursued by the Furies, and endured the mental torment 
 consequent on great criminal actions. They regarded 
 such unhappy beings as Orestes and CEdipus, as being 
 less the voluntary perpetrators of their crimes, than as the 
 passive instruments by which the terrible decrees of Des- 
 tiny had been accomplished ; and the fear with which 
 they beheld them was not unmingled with veneration. 
 
 I also learned farther from Donald MacLeish, that there 
 was some apprehension of ill luck attending those who had 
 the boldness to approach too near, or disturb the awful 
 solitude of a being so unutterably miserable ; that it was 
 supposed that whosoever approached her must experience 
 in some respect her wretchedness. 
 
 It was therefore with some reluctance that Donald 
 saw me prepare to obtain a nearer view of the sufferer, 
 and that he himself followed to assist me in the descent 
 down a very rough path. I believe his regard for me 
 conquered some ominous feelings in his own breast, which 
 
THE CANONGATE. 
 
 101 
 
 connected his duty on this occasion with the presaging 
 fear of lame horses, lost linch-pins, overturns, and other 
 perilous chances of the postillion’s life. 
 
 I am not sure if my own courage would have carried 
 me so close to Elspat, had not he followed. There was 
 in her countenance the stern abstraction of hopeless and 
 overpowering sorrow, mixed with the contending feelings 
 of remorse, and of the pride which struggled to conceal 
 it. She guessed, perhaps, that it was curiosity, arising 
 out of her uncommon story, which induced me to intrude 
 on her solitude — and she could not be pleased that a fate 
 like hers had been the theme of a traveller’s amusement. 
 Yet the look with which she regarded me was one of 
 scorn instead of embarrassment. The opinion of the 
 world and all its children could not add or take an iota 
 from her load of misery; and, save from the half smile 
 that seemed to intimate the contempt of a being wrapt 
 by the very intensity of her affliction above the sphere 
 of ordinary humanities, she seemed as indifferent to 
 my gaze, as if she had been a dead corpse or a marble 
 statue. 
 
 Elspat was above the middle stature ; her hair, now 
 grizzled, was still profuse ; and it had been of the most 
 decided black. So were her eyes, in which, contradict- 
 ing the stern and rigid features of her countenance, there 
 shone the wild and troubled light that indicates an unset- 
 tled mind. Her hair was wrapt round a silver bodkin 
 with some attention to neatness, and her dark mantle was 
 disposed around her with a degree of taste, though the 
 materials were of the most ordinary sort. 
 
 After gazing on this victim of guilt and calamity till 
 I w r as ashamed to remain silent, though uncertain how I 
 ought to address her, I began to express my surprise at 
 her choosing such a desert and deplorable dwelling. 
 She cut short these expressions of sympathy, by answer- 
 ing in a stern voice, without the least change of counte- 
 nance or posture — u Daughter of the stranger, he has 
 told you my story.” I was silenced at once, and felt 
 9 * VOL. i. 
 
102 
 
 CHRONICLES 6f 
 
 how little all earthly accommodation must seem to the 
 mind which had such subjects as hers for rumination. 
 Without again attempting to open the conversation, I took 
 a piece of gold from my purse, (for Donald had intimated 
 she lived on alms,) expecting she would at least stretch 
 her hand to receive it. But she neither accepted nor re- 
 jected the gift — she did not even seem to notice it, though 
 twenty times as valuable, probably, as was usually offer- 
 ed. I was obliged to place it on her knee, saying invol- 
 untarily, as I did so, “ May God pardon you, and relieve 
 you !” I shall never forget the look which she cast up to 
 Heaven, nor the tone in which she exclaimed, in the very 
 words of my old friend, John Home — 
 
 11 My beautiful — my brave V 
 
 It was the language of nature, and arose from the heart 
 of the deprived mother, as it did from that gifted imagin- 
 ative poet, while furnishing with appropriate expressions 
 the ideal grief of Lady Randolph. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 O, I’m come to the Low Country, 
 
 Och, och, ohonochie, 
 
 Without a penny in my pouch 
 To buy a meal for me. 
 
 I was the proudest of my clan, 
 
 Long, long may 1 repine; 
 
 And Donald was the bravest man, 
 
 And Donald he was mine. 
 
 Old Song. 
 
 Elspat had enjoyed happy days, though her age had 
 sunk into hopeless and inconsolable sorrow and distress. 
 She was once the beautiful and happy wife of Hamish 
 MacTavish, for whom his strength and feats of prowess 
 had gained him the title of MacTavish Mhor. His life 
 
THE CANONGATE. 
 
 103 
 
 was turbulent and dangerous, his habits being of the old 
 Highland stamp, which esteemed it shame to want any- 
 thing that could be had for the taking. Those in the 
 Lowland line who lay near him, and desired to enjoy 
 their lives and property in quiet, were contented to pay 
 him a small composition, in name of protection-money, 
 and comforted themselves with the old proverb, that it 
 was better to “ fleech the deil than fight him.” Others, 
 who accounted such composition dishonourable, were of- 
 ten surprised by MacTavish Mhor, and his associates 
 and followers, who usually inflicted an adequate penalty, 
 either in person or property, or both. The creagh is 
 yet remembered, in which he swept one hundred and fifty 
 cows from Monteith in one drove ; and how he placed 
 the laird of Ballybught naked in a slough, for having 
 threatened to send for a party of the Highland Watch 
 to protect his property. 
 
 Whatever were occasionally the triumphs of this daring 
 cateran, they were often exchanged for reverses ; and his 
 narrow escapes, rapid flights, and ingenious stratagems 
 with which he extricated himself from imminent danger, 
 were no less remembered and admired than the exploits 
 in which he had been successful. In weal or wo, through 
 every species of fatigue, difficulty, and danger, Elspat 
 was his faithful companion. She enjoyed with him the 
 fits of occasional prosperity ; and when adversity pressed 
 them hard, her strength of mind, readiness of wit, and 
 courageous endurance of danger and toil, were said often 
 to have stimulated the exertions of her husband. 
 
 Their morality was of the old Highland cast, faithful 
 friends and fierce enemies : the Lowland herds and har- 
 vests they accounted their own, whenever they had the 
 means of driving off the one, or of seizing upon the other ; 
 nor did the least scruple on the right of property interfere 
 on such occasions. Hamish Mhor argued like the old 
 Cretan warrior : 
 
 My sword, my spear, my shaggy shield, 
 
 They make me lord of all below ; 
 
104 
 
 CHRONICLES OF 
 
 For he that fears the lance to wield. 
 
 Before my shaggy shield must bow, — 
 
 His lands, his living, must resign, 
 
 And all that cowards have is mine. 
 
 But those days of perilous, though frequently success- 
 ful depredation, began to be abridged after the failure of 
 the expedition of Prince Charles Edward. MacTavish 
 Mhor had not sat still on that occasion, and he was out- 
 lawed, both as a traitor to the state, and as a robber and 
 cateran. Garrisons were now settled in many places 
 where a red coat had never before been seen, and the 
 Saxon war-drum resounded among the most hidden re- 
 cesses of the Highland mountains. The fate of MacTavish 
 became every day more inevitable ; and it was the more 
 difficult for him to make his exertions for defence or es- 
 cape, that Elspat, amid his evil days, had increased his 
 family with an infant child, which was a considerable en- 
 cumbrance upon the necessary rapidity of their motions. 
 
 At length the fatal day arrived. In a strong pass on 
 the skirts of Ben Cruachan, the celebrated MacTavish 
 Mhor was surprised by a detachment of the Sidier Roy. 
 His wife assisted him heroically, charging his piece from 
 time to time ; and as they were in possession of a post 
 that was nearly unassailable, lie might have perhaps es- 
 caped if his ammunition had lasted. But at length his balls 
 were expended, although it was not until he had fired off 
 most of the silver buttons from his waistcoat, that the 
 soldiers, no longer deterred by fear of the unerring marks- 
 man, who had slain three, and wounded more of their 
 number, approached his stronghold, and, unable to take 
 him alive, slew him, after a most desperate resistance. 
 
 All this Elspat witnessed and survived, for she had, in 
 the child which relied on her for support, a motive for 
 strength and exertion. In what manner she maintained 
 herself it is not easy to say. Her only ostensible means 
 of support were, a flock of three or four goats, which she 
 fed wherever she pleased on the mountain pastures, no 
 one challenging the intrusion. In the general distress of 
 the country, her ancient acquaintances had little to be- 
 
THE CANONGATE. 
 
 105 
 
 stow ; but what they could part with from their own 
 necessities, they willingly devoted to the relief of others. 
 From Lowlanders she sometimes demanded tribute, rath- 
 er than requested alms. She had not forgotten she was 
 the widow of MacTavish Mhor, or that the child who 
 trotted by her knee might, such were her imaginations, 
 emulate one day the fame of his father, and command the 
 same influence which he had once exerted without con- 
 trol. She associated so little with others, went so seldom 
 and so unwillingly from the wildest recesses of the moun- 
 tains, where she usually dwelt with her goats, that she 
 was quite unconscious of the great change which had 
 taken place in the country around her, the substitution of 
 civil order for military violence, and the strength gained 
 by the law and its adherents over those who were called 
 in Gaelic song, “ the stormy sons of the sword.” Her 
 own diminished consequence and straitened circumstances 
 she indeed felt, but for this the death of MacTavish Mhor 
 was, in her apprehension, a sufficing reason ; and she 
 doubted not that she should rise to her former state of 
 importance, when Hamish Bean (or Fair-haired James) 
 should be able to wield the arms of his father. If, then, 
 Elspat was repelled rudely when she demanded anything 
 necessary for her wants, or the accommodation of her 
 little flock, by a churlish farmer, her threats of vengeance, 
 obscurely expressed, yet terrible in their tenor, used fre- 
 quently to extort, through fear of her maledictions, the 
 relief which was denied to her necessities ; and the trem- 
 bling goodwife, who gave meal or money to the widow of 
 MacTavish Mhor, wished in her heart that the stern old 
 carlin had been burnt on the day her husband had his 
 due. 
 
 Years thus ran on, and Hamish Bean grew up, not in- 
 deed to be of his father’s size or strength, but to become 
 an active, high-spirited, fair-haired youth, with a ruddy 
 cheek, an eye like an eagle, and all the agility, if not all 
 the strength, of his formidable father, upon whose history 
 and achievements his mother dwelt, in order to form her 
 son’s mind to a sftnilar course of adventures. But the 
 
106 
 
 CHRONICLES OF 
 
 young see the present state of this changeful world more 
 keenly than the old. Much attached to his mother, and 
 disposed to do all in his power for his support, Hamish 
 yet perceived, when he mixed with the world, that the 
 trade of the cateran was now alike dangerous and discred- 
 itable, and that if he were to emulate his father’s prowess, 
 it must be in some other line of warfare, more consonant 
 to the opinions of the present day. 
 
 As the faculties of mind and body began to expand, 
 he became more sensible of the precarious nature of his 
 situation, of the erroneous views of his mother, and her 
 ignorance respecting the changes of the society with which 
 she mingled so little. In visiting friends and neighbours, 
 he became aware of the extremely reduced scale to which 
 his parent was limited, and learned that she possessed 
 little or nothing more than the extreme necessaries of life, 
 and that these were sometimes on the point of failing. 
 At times his success in fishing and the chase was able to 
 add something to her subsistence ; but he saw no regular 
 means of contributing to her support, unless by stooping 
 to servile labour, which, if he himself could have endured 
 it, would, he knew, have been like a death’s-vvound to the 
 pride of his mother. 
 
 Elspat, meanwhile, saw with surprise, that Hamish 
 Bean, although now tall and fit for the field, showed no 
 disposition to enter on his father’s scene of action. There 
 was something of the mother at her heart, which prevent- 
 ed her from urging him in plain terms to take the field 
 as a cateran, for the fear occurred of the perils into which 
 the trade must conduct him ; and when she would have 
 spoken to him on the subject, it seemed to her heated 
 imagination as if the ghost of her husband arose between 
 them in his bloody tartans, and laying his finger on his 
 lips, appeared to prohibit the topic. Yet she wondered 
 at what seemed his want of spirit, sighed as she saw him 
 from day to day lounging about in the long-skirted Low- 
 land coat, which the legislature had imposed upon the 
 Gael instead of their own romantic garb, and thought how 
 much nearer he would have resembled her husband, had 
 
THE CANONGATE. 
 
 107 
 
 he been clad in the belted plaid and short hose, with his 
 polished arms gleaming at his side. 
 
 Besides these subjects for anxiety, Elspat had others 
 arising lrom the engrossing impetuosity of her temper. 
 Her love of MacTavish Mhor had been qualified by re- 
 spect and sometimes even by fear ; for the cateran was 
 not the species of man who submits to female government ; 
 but over his son she had exerted, at first during childhood, 
 and afterwards in early youth, an imperious authority, 
 which gave her maternal love aj^iaracter of jealousy. 
 She could not bear, when Hamish, with advancing life, 
 made repeated steps towards independence, absented him- 
 self from her cottage at such season, and for such length of 
 time as he chose, and seemed to consider, although main- 
 taining towards her every possible degree of respect and 
 kindness, that the control and responsibility of his actions 
 rested on himself alone. This would have been of little 
 consequence, could she have concealed her feelings within 
 her own bosom ; but the ardour and impatience of her 
 passions made her frequently show her son that she con- 
 ceived herself neglected and ill used. When he was 
 absent for any length of time from her cottage, without 
 giving intimation of his purpose, her resentment on his 
 return used to be so unreasonable, that it naturally sug- 
 gested to a young man fond of independence, and desir- 
 ous to amend his situation in the world, to leave her, even 
 for the very purpose of enabling him to provide for the 
 parent whose egotistical demands on his filial attention, 
 tended to confine him to a desert, in which both were 
 starving in hopeless and helpless indigence. 
 
 Upon one occasion, the son having been guilty of some 
 independent excursion, by which the mother felt herself 
 affronted and disobliged, she had been more than usually 
 violent on his return, and awakened in Hamish a sense of 
 displeasure, > which clouded his brow and cheek. At 
 length, as she persevered in her unreasonable resentment, 
 his patience became exhausted, and taking his gun from 
 the chimney corner, and muttering to himself the reply 
 which his respect for his mother prevented him from speak- 
 
108 
 
 CHRONICLES OF 
 
 ing aloud, he was about to leave the hut which he had 
 but barely entered. 
 
 “ Hamish,” said his mother, “ are you again about to 
 leave me ?” But Hamish only replied by looking at, 
 and rubbing the lock of his gun. 
 
 “ Ay, rub the lock of your gun,” said his parent, bit- 
 terly ; “lam glad you have courage enough to fire it, 
 though it be but at a roe-deer.” Hamish started at this 
 undeserved taunt, and cast a look of anger at her in reply. 
 She saw that she had#)und the means of giving him pain. 
 
 “ Yes,” she said, “ look fierce as you will at an old 
 woman, and your mother ; it would be long ere you bent 
 your brow on the angry countenance of a bearded man.” 
 
 “ Be silent, mother, or speak of what you understand,” 
 said Hamish, much irritated, “ and that is of the distaff 
 and the spindle.” 
 
 “ And was it of spindle and distaff that I was thinking 
 when I bore you away on my back, through the fire of 
 six of the Saxon soldiers, and you a wailing child *? 1 
 tell you, Hamish, I know a hundred-fold more of swords 
 and guns than ever you will ; and you will never learn so 
 much of noble war by yourself, as you have seen when 
 you were wrapped up in my plaid.” 
 
 “ You are determined at least to allow me no peace at 
 home, mother ; but this shall have an end,” said Hamish, 
 as, resuming his purpose of leaving the hut, he rose and 
 went towards the door. 
 
 “ Stay, I command you,” said his mother ; “ stay ! 
 or may the gun you carry be the means of your ruin — 
 may the road you are going be the track of your funeral !” 
 
 “ What makes you use such words, mother 9” said the 
 young man, turning a little back — “ they are not good, 
 and good cannot come of them. Farewell just now, we 
 are too angry to speak together — farewell ; it will be 
 long ere you see me again.” And he departed, his moth- 
 er, in the first burst of her impatience, show r ered after 
 him her maledictions, and in the next invoking them on 
 her own head, so that they might spare her son’s. She 
 passed that day and the next in all the vehemence ot 
 
THE CANONGATE. 
 
 109 
 
 impotent and yet unrestrained passion, now entreating 
 Heaven, and such powers as were familiar to her by rude 
 tradition, to restore her dear son, “ the calf of her heart 
 now in impatient resentment, meditated with what better 
 terms she should rebuke his filial disobedience upon his 
 return, and now studying the most tender language to 
 attach him to the cottage, which, when her boy was pres- 
 ent, she would not, in the rapture of her affection, have 
 exchanged for the apartments of Taymouth Castle. 
 
 Two days passed, during which, neglecting even the 
 slender means of supporting nature which her situation 
 afforded, nothing but the strength of a frame accustomed 
 to hardships and privations of every kind, could have kept 
 her in existence, notwithstanding the anguish of her mind 
 prevented her being sensible of her personal weakness. 
 Her dwelling, at this unhappy period, was the same cot- 
 tage near which I had found her, but then more habitable 
 by the exertions of Hamish, by whom it had been in a 
 great measure built and repaired. 
 
 It was on the third day after her son had disappeared, 
 as she sat at the door rocking herself, after the fashion of 
 her countrywomen when in distress, or in pain, that the 
 then unwonted circumstance occurred of a passenger 
 being seen on the high road above the cottage. She cast 
 but one glance at him — he was on horseback, so that it 
 could not be Hamish, and Elspat cared not enough for 
 any other being on earth, to make her turn her eyes to- 
 wards him a second time. The stranger, however, paus- 
 ed opposite to her cottage, and dismounting from his pony, 
 led it down the steep and broken path which conducted 
 to her door. 
 
 “ God bless you, Elspat MacTavish !”— She looked at 
 the man as he addressed her in her native language, with 
 the displeased air of one whose reverie is interrupted ; 
 but the traveller went on to say, “ I bring you tidings of 
 your son Hamish.” At once, from being the most unin- 
 teresting being, in respect to Elspat, that could exist, the 
 form of the stranger became awful in her eyes, as that of 
 10 VOL. I. 
 
110 
 
 CHRONICLES OF 
 
 a messenger descended from Heaven, expressly to pro- 
 nounce upon her death or life. She started from her 
 seat, and with hands convulsively clasped together, and 
 held up to Heaven, eyes fixed on the stranger’s counte- 
 nance, and person stooping forward to him, she looked 
 those inquiries, which her faltering tongue could not ar- 
 ticulate. “ Your son sends you his dutiful remembrance 
 and this,” said the messenger, putting into Elspat’s hand 
 a small purse containing four or five dollars. 
 
 “ He is gone, he is gone !” exclaimed Elspat ; “ he 
 has sold himself to be the servant of the Saxons, and I 
 shall never more behold him. Tell me, Miles MacPhad- 
 raick, for now I know you, is it the price of the son’s blood 
 that you have put into the mother’s hand 9” 
 
 “ Now, God forbid !” answered MacPhadraick, who 
 was a tacksman, and had possession of a considerable 
 tract of ground under his Chief, a proprietor who lived 
 about twenty miles off — “ God forbid I should do wrong, 
 or say wrong, to you, or to the son of MacTavish Mhor ! 
 I swear to you by the hand of my Chief, that your son is 
 well, and will soon see you ; and the rest he will tell you 
 himself.” So saying, MacPhadraick hastened back up 
 the pathway — gained the road, mounted his pony, and 
 rode upon his way. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 Elspat MacTavish remained gazing on the money, 
 as if the impress of the coin could have conveyed infor- 
 mation how it was procured. 
 
 “ I love not this MacPhadraick,” she said to herself ; 
 “ it was his race of whom the Bard hath spoken, saying, 
 Fear them not when their words are loud as the winter’s 
 wind, but fear them when they fall on you like the sound 
 
TIIE C AXON GATE. 
 
 Ill 
 
 of the thrush’s song. And yet this riddle can be read 
 but one way : My son hath taken the sword, to win that 
 with strength like a man, which churls would keep him 
 from with the words that frighten children.” This idea, 
 when once it occurred to her, seemed the more reasona- 
 ble, that MacPhadraick, as she well knew, himself a cau- 
 tious man, had so far encouraged her husband’s practices, 
 as occasionally to buy cattle of MacTavish, although he 
 must have well known how they were come by, taking 
 care, however, that the transaction was so made, as to be 
 accompanied with great profit and absolute safety. Who 
 so likely as MacPhadraick to indicate to a young cateran 
 the glen in which he could commence his perilous trade 
 with most prospect of success, who so likely to convert 
 his booty into money The feelings which another might 
 have experienced on believing that an only son had rush- 
 ed forward on the same path in which his father had per- 
 ished, were scarce known to the Highland mothers of 
 that day. She thought of the death of MacTavish Mhor 
 as that of a hero who had fallen in his proper trade of 
 war, and who had not fallen unavenged. She feared less 
 for her son’s life than for his dishonour. She dreaded 
 on his account the subjection to strangers, and the death- 
 sleep of the soul which is brought on by what she regard- 
 ed as slavery. 
 
 The moral principle which so naturally and so justly 
 occurs to the mind of those who have been educated un- 
 der a settled government of laws that protect the property 
 of the weak against the incursions of the strong, was to 
 poor Elspat a book sealed and a fountain closed. She 
 had been taught to consider those whom they called Sax- 
 ons, as a race with whom the Gael were constantly at 
 war, and she regarded every settlement of theirs within 
 reach of Highland incursion, as affording a legitimate ob- 
 ject of attack and plunder. Her feelings on this point 
 had been strengthened and confirmed, not only by the 
 desire of revenge for the death of her husband, but by 
 the sense of general indignation entertained, not unjustly, 
 through the Highlands of Scotland, on account of the 
 
112 
 
 CHRONICLES OF 
 
 barbarous and violent conduct of the victors after the 
 battle of Culloden. Other Highland clans, too, she re- 
 garded as the fair objects of plunder when that was pos- 
 sible, upon the score of ancient enmities and deadly feuds. 
 
 The prudence that might have weighed the slender 
 means, which the times afforded for resisting the efforts of a 
 combined government, which had, in its less compact and 
 established authority, been unable to put down the rava- 
 ges of such lawless caterans as MacTavish Mhor, was 
 unknown to a solitary woman, whose ideas still dwelt upon 
 her own early times. She imagined that her son had 
 only to proclaim himself his father’s successor in adven- 
 ture and enterprize, and that a force of men as gallant as 
 those who had followed his father’s banner, would crowd 
 around to support it when again displayed. To her, 
 Hamish was the eagle who had only to soar aloft and re- 
 sume his native place in the skies, without her being able 
 to comprehend how 7 many additional eyes would have 
 watched his flight, how many additional bullets would have 
 been directed at his bosom. To be brief, Elspat was 
 one who viewed the present state of society with the same 
 feelings with which she regarded the times that had passed 
 away. She had been indigent, neglected, oppressed, since 
 the days that her husband had no longer been feared and 
 powerful, and she thought that the term of her ascend- 
 ance would return when her son had determined to play 
 the part of his father. If she permitted her eye to glance 
 farther on futurity, it was but to anticipate that she must 
 be for many a day cold in the grave, with the coronach of 
 her tribe cried duly over her, before her fair-haired Ha- 
 mish could, according to her calculation, die with his hand 
 on the basket-hilt of the red claymore. His father’s hair 
 was grey, ere, after a hundred dangers, he had fallen with 
 his arms in his hands — That she should have seen and 
 survived the sight, was a natural consequence of the man- 
 ners of that age. And better it was — such was her proud 
 thought — that she had seen him so die, than to have wit- 
 nessed his departure from life in a, smoky hovel — on a 
 bed of rotten straw, like an over- worn hound* or a buf* 
 
THE CANONGATE. 
 
 113 
 
 lock which died of disease. But the hour of her young, 
 her brave Hamisl:, was yet far distant. He must suc- 
 ceed — he must conquer, like his father. And when he 
 fell at length, — for she anticipated for him no bloodless 
 death, — Elspat would ere then have lain long in the grave, 
 and could neither see his death-struggle, nor mourn over 
 his grave sod. 
 
 With such wild notions working in Jjer brain, the spirit 
 of Elspat rose to its usual pitch, or rather to one which 
 seemed higher. In the emphatic language of Scripture, 
 which in that idiom does not greatly differ from her own, 
 she arose, she washed and changed her apparel, and ate 
 bread, and was refreshed. 
 
 She longed eagerly for the return of her son, but she 
 now longed not with the bitter anxiety of doubt and ap- 
 prehension. She said to herself, that much must be done 
 ere he could in these times arise to be an eminent and 
 dreaded leader. Yet when she saw him again, she almost 
 expected him at the head of a daring band, with pipes 
 playing, and banners flying, the noble tartans fluttering 
 free in the wind, in despite of the laws which had sup- 
 pressed, under severe penalties, the use of the national 
 garb, and all the appurtenances of Highland chivalry. 
 For all thjs, her eager imagination was content only to 
 allow the interval of some days. 
 
 From the moment this opinion had taken deep and 
 serious possession of her mind, her thoughts were bent 
 upon receiving her son at the head of his adherents in 
 the manner in which she used to adorn her hut for the 
 return of his father. 
 
 The substantial means of subsistence she had not the 
 power of providing, nor did she consider that of import- 
 ance. The successful caterans would bring with them 
 herds and flocks. But the interior of her hut was ar- 
 ranged for their reception — the usquebaugh w T as brewed 
 or distilled in a larger quantity than it could have been 
 supposed one lone woman could have made ready. Her 
 hut was put into such order as might, in some degree, 
 10 * VOL. i. 
 
114 
 
 CHRONICLES OF 
 
 give it the appearance of a day of rejoicing. It was swept 
 and decorated with boughs of various kinds, like the house 
 of a Jewess, upon what is termed the Feast of the Tab- 
 ernacles. The produce of the milk of her little flock 
 was prepared in as great variety of forms as her skill ad- 
 mitted, to entertain her son and his associates whom she 
 expected to receive along with him. 
 
 But the principal decoration, which she sought with 
 the greatest toil, was the cloud-berry, a scarlet fruit, 
 which is only found on very high hills, and there only in 
 small quantities. Her husband, or perhaps one of his 
 forefathers, had chosen this as the emblem of his family, 
 because it seemed at once to imply by its scarcity the 
 smallness of their clan, and by the places in which it was 
 found, the ambitious height of their pretensions. 
 
 For the time that these simple preparations of welcome 
 endured, Elspat was in a state of troubled happiness. In 
 fact, her only anxiety was that she might be able to com- 
 plete all that she could do to welcome Hamish and the 
 friends who she supposed must have attached themselves 
 to his band, before they should arrive, and find her un- 
 provided for their reception. 
 
 But when such efforts as she could make had been ac- 
 complished, she once more had nothing left to engage her 
 save the trifling care of her goats ; and when these had 
 been attended to, she had only to review her little pre- 
 parations, renew such as were of a transitory nature, re- 
 place decayed branches and fading boughs, and then to 
 sit down at her cottage door and watch the road, as it 
 ascended on the one side from the banks of the Awe, and 
 on the other wound round the heights of the mountain, 
 with such a degree of accommodation to hill and level as 
 the plan of the military engineer permitted. While so 
 occupied, her imagination, anticipating the future from 
 recollections of the past, formed out of the morning mist 
 or the evening cloud the wild forms of an advancing band, 
 which were then called “ Sidier Dhu,” — dark soldiers 
 dressed in their native tartan, and so named to distinguish 
 
TIIE CANONCATE. 
 
 115 
 
 them from the scarlet ranks of the British army. In this 
 occupation she spent many hours of each morning and 
 evening. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 It was in vain that Elspat’s eyes surveyed the distant 
 path, by the earliest light of the dawn and the latest glim- 
 mer of the twilight. No rising dust awakened the ex- 
 pectation of nodding plumes or flashing arms — the solitary 
 traveller trudged listlessly along in his brown Lowland 
 great-coat, his tartans dyed black or purple, to comply 
 with or evade the law which prohibited their being worn 
 in their variegated hues. The spirit of the Gael, sunk 
 and broken by the severe though perhaps necessary laws, 
 that proscribed the dress and arms which he considered 
 as his birthright, was intimated by his drooping head and 
 dejected appearance. Not in such depressed wanderers 
 did Elspat recognize the light and free step of her son, now, 
 as she concluded, regenerated from every sign of Saxon 
 thraldom. Night by night, as darkness came, she re- 
 moved from her unclosed door to throw herself on her 
 restless pallet, not to sleep, but to watch. The brave and 
 the terrible, she said, walk by night — their steps are heard 
 in darkness, when all is silent save the whirlwind and the 
 cataract — the timid deer comes only forth w’hen the sun 
 is upon the mountain’s peak ; but the bold wolf walks in 
 the red light of the harvest-moon. She reasoned in vain 
 — her son’s expected summons did not call her from the 
 lowly couch, where she lay dreaming of his approach. 
 Hamish came not. 
 
 “ Hope deferred,” saith the royal sage, <c maketh the 
 heart sick and strong as was Elspat’s constitution, she 
 began to experience that it was unequal to the toils to 
 which her anxious and immoderate affection subjected 
 
116 
 
 CHRONICLES OF 
 
 her, when early one morning the appearance of a travel- 
 ler on the lonely mountain-road, revived hopes which had 
 begun to sink into listless despair. There was no sign of 
 Saxon subjugation about the stranger. At a distance she 
 could see the flutter of the belted-plaid, that drooped in 
 graceful folds behind him, and the plume that, placed in 
 the bonnet, showed rank and gentle birth. He carried 
 a gun over his shoulder, the claymore was swinging by 
 his side, with its usual appendages, the dirk, the pistol, 
 and the sporran mollach .* Ere yet her eye had scanned 
 all these particulars, the light step of the traveller was 
 hastened, his arm was waved in token of recognition — a 
 moment more, and Elspat held in her arms her darling 
 son, dressed in the garb of his ancestors, and looking, in 
 her maternal eyes, the fairest among ten thousand. 
 
 The first outpouring of affection it would be impossible 
 to describe. Blessings mingled with the most endearing 
 epithets which her energetic language affords, in striving 
 to express the wild rapture of Elspat’s joy. Her board 
 was heaped hastily with all she had to offer ; and the 
 mother watched tlie young soldier, as he partook of the 
 refreshment, with feelings how similar to, yet how differ- 
 ent. from, those with which she had seen him draw his 
 first sustenance from her bosom ! 
 
 When the tumult of joy was appeased, Elspat became 
 anxious to know her son’s adventures since they parted, 
 and could not help greatly censuring his rashness fortra- 
 versing the hills in the Highland dress in the broad sun- 
 shine; when the penalty was so heavy, and so many red 
 soldiers were abroad in the country. 
 
 “ Fear not for me, mother,” said Hamish, in a tone 
 designed to relieve her anxiety, and yet somewhat em- 
 barrassed ; “ I may wear t lie breacany at the gate of 
 Fort-Auguslus, if I like it.” 
 
 “ Oh, be not too daring, my beloved Hamish, though 
 it be the fault which best becomes thy father’s son — yet 
 
 * The goat-skin pouch worn by the Highlanders round their waist, 
 f That which is variegated, i. e. the tartan. 
 
THE CANONGATE. 
 
 117 
 
 be not too daring ! Alas, they fight not now as in former 
 days, with fair weapons, and on equal terms, but take 
 odds of numbers and of arms, so that the feeble and the 
 strong are alike levelled by the shot of a boy. And do 
 not think me unworthy to be called your father’s widow, 
 and your mother, because 1 speak thus ; for God know- 
 eth, that, man to man, 1 would peril thee against the best 
 in Breadalbane, and broad Lorn besides.” 
 
 “ I assure you, my dearest mother,” replied Ilamish, 
 “ that 1 am in no danger. But have you seen Mac- 
 Phadraick, mother, and what has he said to you on my 
 account 9” 
 
 “ Silver he left me in plenty, Hamish ; but the best of 
 his comfort was, that you were well, and would see me 
 soon. But beware of MacPhadraick, my son ; for when 
 he called himself the friend of your father, he better loved 
 the most worthless stirk in his herd, than he did the life- 
 blood of MacTavish Mhor. Use his services, therefore, 
 and pay him for them — for it is thus we should deal with 
 the unworthy ; but take my counsel, and trust him not.” 
 
 Hamish could not suppress a sigh, which seemed tA 
 Elspat to intimate that the caution came too late. “ What 
 have you done with him 9” she continued, eager and 
 alarmed. “ I had money of him, and he gives not that 
 without value— he is none of those who exchange barley 
 for chaff. Oh, if you repent you of your bargain, and 
 if it be one which you may break oif without disgrace to 
 your truth or your manhood, take back his silver, and 
 trust not to his fair words.” 
 
 “ It may not be, mother,” said Hamish ; “ I do not 
 repent my engagement, unless that it must make me leave 
 you soon.” 
 
 “ Leave me ! how leave me 9 Silly boy, think you I 
 know not what duty belongs to the wife or mother of a 
 daring man ! Thou art but a boy yet ; and when thy 
 father had been the dread of the country for tw r enty years, 
 he did not despise my company and assistance, but often 
 said my help was worth that of two strong gillies.” 
 
118 
 
 CHRONICLES OF 
 
 “ It is not on that score, mother ; but since I must leave 
 the country ” 
 
 “ Leave the country !” replied his mother, interrupt- 
 ing him; “ and think you that I am like a bush, that is 
 rooted to the soil where it grows, and must die if carried 
 elsewhere I have breathed other winds than these of 
 Ben Cruachan — I have followed your father to the wilds 
 of Ross, and the impenetrable deserts of Y Mac Y Mhor 
 — Tush, man, my limbs, old as they are, will bear me as 
 far as young feet can trace the way.” 
 
 “ Alas, mother,” said the young man, with a faltering 
 accent, “ but to cross the sea ” 
 
 “ The sea who am I that I should fear the sea ? 
 Have I never been in a birling in my life — never known 
 the sound of Mull, the Isles of Treshornish, and the 
 rough rocks of Harris < ?” 
 
 “ Alas, mother, I go far, far from all of these — I am 
 enlisted in one of the new regiments, and we go against 
 the French in America.” 
 
 “ Enlisted !” uttered the astonished mother — “ against 
 my will — without my consent — You could not — you would 
 not,” — then rising up, and assuming a posture of almost 
 imperial command, “ Hamish, you dared not !” 
 
 “ Despair, mother, dares everything,” answered Ha- 
 mish, in a tone of melancholy resolution. “ What should 
 I do here, where I can scarce get bread for myself and 
 you, and when the times are growing daily worse Would 
 you but sit down and listen, I would convince you I have 
 acted for the best.” 
 
 With a bitter smile Elspat sat down, and the same se- 
 vere ironical expression was on her features, as, with her 
 lips firmly closed, she listened to his vindication. 
 
 Hamish went on, without being disconcerted by her 
 expected displeasure. “ When I left you, dearest mother, 
 it was to go to MacPhadraick’s house, for although I know 
 he is crafty and worldly, after the fashion of the Sasse- 
 nach, yet he is wise, and I thought how he would teach 
 me, as it would cost him nothing, in which way I could 
 mend our estate in the world.” 
 
THli CANONGATE. 
 
 119 
 
 " Our estate in the world !” said Elspat, losing patience 
 at the word ; “ and went you to a base fellow with a soul 
 no better than that of a cowherd, to ask counsel about 
 your conduct Your father asked none, save at his cour- 
 age and his sword.” 
 
 “ Dearest mother,” answered Hamish, “ how shall 1 
 convince you that you live in this land of our fathers, as 
 if our fathers were yet living 9 You walk as it were in a 
 dream, surrounded by the phantoms of those who have 
 been long with the dead. When my father lived and 
 fought, the great respected the Man of the strong right 
 hand, and the rich feared him. He had protection from 
 MacAllan Mhor, and from Caberfae, and tribute from 
 meaner men. That is ended, and his son would only 
 earn a disgraceful and unpitied death, by the practices 
 which gave his father credit and power among those who 
 wear the breacan. The land is conquered — its lights are 
 quenched, — Glengary, Lochiel, Perth, Lord Lewis, all 
 the high chiefs are dead or in exile — We may mourn for 
 it, but we cannot help it. Bonnet, broadsword, and spor- 
 ran — power, strength, and wealth, were all lost on Drum- 
 mossie-muir.” 
 
 “ It is false !” said Elspat, fiercely ; “ you, and such 
 like dastardly spirits, are quelled by your own faint hearts, 
 not by the strength of the enemy ; you are like the fear- 
 full waterfowl, to whom the least cloud in the sky seems 
 the shadow of the eagle.” 
 
 “ Mother,” said Hamish, proudly, “ lay not faint heart 
 to my charge. I go where men are wanted who have 
 strong arms and bold hearts too. I leave a desert, for a 
 land where I may gather fame.” 
 
 “ And you leave your mother to perish in want, age, 
 and solitude,” said Elspat, essaying successively every 
 means of moving a resolution, which she began to see 
 was more deeply rooted than she had at first thought. 
 
 “ Not so, neither,” he answered ; “ 1 leave you to 
 comfort and certainty, which you have yet never known. 
 Barcaldine’s son is made a leader, and with him I have 
 
120 
 
 CHRONICLES OF 
 
 enrolled myself; MacPhadraick acts for him, and raises 
 men, and finds his own in it.” 
 
 “ That is the truest word of the tale, were all the rest 
 as false as hell,” said the old woman, bitterly. 
 
 “ But we are to find our good in it also,” continued 
 Hamish ; “ for Barcaldine is to give you a shieling in his 
 wood of Letter-findreight, with grass for your goats, and 
 a cow, when you please to have one, on the common ; 
 and my own pay, dearest mother, though I am far away, 
 will do more than provide you with meal, and with all else 
 you can want. Do not fear for me. I enter a private 
 gentleman ; but I will return, if hard fighting and regular 
 duty can deserve it, an officer, and with half a dollar 
 a-day.” 
 
 “ Poor child ! — ” replied Elspat, in a tone of pity 
 mingled with contempt, “ and you trust MacPhadraick V 9 
 “ ] might, mother — ” said Hamish, the dark red col- 
 our of his race crossing his forehead and cheeks, “ for 
 MacPhadraick knows the blood which flows in my veins, 
 and is aware, that should he break trust with you, he 
 might count the days which could bring Hamish back to 
 Breadalbane, and number those of his life within three 
 suns more. I would kill hirn at his own hearth, did he 
 break his word with me — I would, by the great Being 
 who made us both !” 
 
 The look and attitude of the young soldier for a mo- 
 ment overawed Elspat ; she was unused to see him express 
 a deep and bitter mood, which reminded her so strongly 
 of his father, but she resumed her remonstrances in the 
 same taunting manner in which she had commenced them. 
 
 “ Poor boy !” she said ; “ and you think that at the 
 distance of half the world your threats will be heard or 
 thought of ! But, go — go — place your neck under him of 
 Hanover’s yoke, against whom every true Gael fought to 
 the death — Go, disown the royal Stuart, for whom your 
 father, and his fathers, and your mother’s fathers, have 
 crimsoned many a field with their blood. — Go, put your 
 head under the belt of one of the race of Dermid, whose 
 children murdered — Yes,” she added, with a wild shriek, 
 
TIIE CANONGATE. 
 
 121 
 
 u murdered your mother’s fathers in their peaceful dwel- 
 lings at Glencoe ! — Yes,” she again exclaimed, with a 
 wilder and shriller scream, “ 1 was then unborn, but rny 
 mother has told me — and 1 attended to the voice of my 
 mother — well 1 remember her words ! — They came in 
 peace, and were received in friendship, and blood and 
 fire rose, and screams and murder !” 
 
 “ Mother,” answered Hamish, mournfully, but with a 
 decided tone, “ all that 1 have thought over — there is 
 not a drop of the blood of Glencoe on the noble hand of 
 Barcaldine — with the unhappy house of Clenlyon the 
 curse remains, and on them God hath avenged it.” 
 
 “ You speak like the Saxon priest already,” replied 
 his mother ; “ will you not better stay, and ask a kirk 
 from Mac Allan Mhor, that you may preach forgiveness 
 to the race of Dermid ?” 
 
 “Yesterday was yesterday,” answered Hamish, “ and 
 to-day is to-day. When the clans are crushed and con- 
 founded together, it is well and wise that their hatreds 
 and their feuds should not survive their independence and 
 their power. He that cannot execute vengeance like a 
 man, should not harbour useless enmity like a craven. 
 Mother, young Barcaldine is true and brave ; I know that 
 MacPhadraick counselled him, that he should not let me 
 take leave of you, lest you dissuaded me from my pur- 
 pose ; but he said, ‘ Hamish MacTavish is the son of a 
 brave man, and he will not break his word.’ Mother, 
 Barcaldine leads an hundred of the bravest of the sons of 
 the Gael in their native dress, and with their fathers’ arms 
 — heart to heart — shoulder to shoulder. I have sworn 
 to go with him — He has trusted me, and 1 will trust him.” 
 
 At this reply, so firmly and resolvedly pronounced, 
 Elspat remained like one thunderstruck, and sunk in des- 
 pair. The arguments which she had considered so irre- 
 sistibly conclusive, had recoiled like a wave from a rock. 
 After a long pause, she filled her son’s quaigh, and pre- 
 sented it to him with an air of dejected deference and 
 submission. 
 
 11 VOL. i. 
 
122 
 
 CHRONICLES OF 
 
 “ Drink,” she said, “ to thy father’s roof-tree, ere you 
 leave it for ever ; and tell me, — since the chains of a new 
 King, and of a new Chief, whom your fathers knew not 
 save as mortal enemies, are fastened upon the limbs of 
 your father’s son, — tell me how many links you count 
 upon them 9” 
 
 Hamish took the cup, but looked at her as if uncertain 
 of her meaning. She proceeded in a raised voice. 
 “ Tell me,” she said, “ for I have a right to know, for 
 how many days the will of those you have made your 
 masters permits me to look upon you 9 — In other words, 
 how many are the days of my life 9 for when you leave 
 me, the earth has naught besides worth living for !” 
 
 “ Mother,” replied Hamish MacTavish, “ for six days 
 I may remain with you, and if you will set out with me on 
 the fifth, I will conduct you in safety to your new dwel- 
 ling. But if you remain here, then will I depart on the 
 seventh by day-break — then, as at the last moment, 1 
 must set out for Dunbarton, for if I appear not on the 
 eighth day, I am subject to punishment as a deserter, and 
 am dishonoured as a soldier and a gentleman.” 
 
 “ Your father’s foot,” she answered, “ was free as the 
 wind on the heath — it were as vain to say to him where 
 goest thou, as to ask that viewless driver of the clouds, 
 wherefore blowest thou. Tell me under what penalty 
 thou must — since go thou must, and go thou wilt — return 
 to thy thraldom 9” 
 
 “ Call it not thraldom, mother, it is the service of an 
 honourable soldier — the only service which is now open 
 to the son of MacTavish Mhor.” 
 
 “ Yet say what is the penalty if thou shouldst not re- 
 turn 9” replied Elspat. 
 
 “ Military punishment as a deserter,” answered Ha- 
 mish ; writhing, however, as his mother failed not to ob- 
 serve, under some internal feelings, which she resolved 
 to probe to the uttermost. 
 
 “ And that,” she said, with assumed calmness, which 
 her glancing eye disowned, “ is the punishment of a dis- 
 obedient hound, is it not?” 
 
THE CANONGATE. 
 
 123 
 
 “ Ask me no more, mother,” said Hamish ; “ the pun- 
 ishment is nothing to one who will never deserve it.” 
 
 “ To me it is something,” replied Elsput, “ since 1 
 know better than thou, that where there is power to inflict, 
 there is often the will to do so without cause. 1 would 
 pray for thee, Ilamish, and I must know against what 
 evils I should beseech Him who leaves none unguarded, 
 to protect thy youth and simplicity.” 
 
 “ Mother,” said Hamish, “ it signifies little to what a 
 criminal may be exposed, if a man is determined not to 
 be such. Our Highland chiefs used also to punish their 
 vassals, and, as 1 have heard, severely — Was it not 
 Lachlan Maclan, whom we remember of old, whose head 
 was struck off by order of his chieftain for shooting at the 
 stag before him 9” 
 
 “ Ay,” said Elspat, “ and right he had to lose it, since 
 he dishonoured the father of the people even in the face 
 of the assembled clan. But the chiefs were noble in their 
 ire — they punished with the sharp blade, and not with 
 the batton. Their punishments drew blood, but they did 
 not infer dishonour. Canst thou say the same for the 
 laws under whose yoke thou hast placed thy free-born 
 neck 9” 
 
 “ I cannot — mother — I cannot,” said Hamish, mourn- 
 fully. “ I saw them punish a Sassenach for deserting, 
 as they called it, his banner. He was scourged — I own 
 it — scourged like a hound who has offended an imperious 
 master. I was sick at the sight — I confess it. But the 
 punishment of dogs is only for those worse than dogs, 
 who know not how 7 to keep their faith.” 
 
 “ To this infamy, however, thou hast subjected thyself, 
 Hamish,” replied Elspat, “ if thou shouldst give, or thy 
 officers take, measure of offence against thee. — I speak 
 no more to thee on thy purpose. — Were the sixth day 
 from this morning sun my dying day, and thou wert to 
 stay to close mine eyes, thou wouldst run the risk of be- 
 ing lashed like a dog at a post — yes ! unless thou hadst 
 the gallant heart to leave me to die alone, and upon my 
 desolate hearth, the last spark of thy father’s fire, and of 
 
124 
 
 CHRONICLES OF 
 
 thy forsaken mother’s life, to be extinguished together V 9 
 — Hamish traversed the hut with an impatient and angry 
 pace. 
 
 “ Mother,” he said at length, “ concern not yourself 
 about such things. 1 cannot be subjected to such infamy, 
 for never will 1 deserve it ; and were I threatened with 
 it, I should know how to die before I was so far dishon- 
 oured.” 
 
 “ There spoke the son of the husband of my heart !” 
 replied Elspat ; and she changed the discourse, and 
 seemed to listen in melancholy acquiescence, when her 
 son reminded her how short the time was which they 
 were permitted to pass in each other’s society, and en- 
 treated that it might be spent without useless and unpleas- 
 ant recollections respecting the circumstances under which 
 they must soon be separated. 
 
 Elspat was now satisfied that her son, with some of his 
 father’s other properties, preserved the haughty masculine 
 spirit which rendered it impossible to divert him from a 
 resolution which he had deliberately adopted. She as- 
 sumed, therefore, an exterior of apparent submission to 
 their inevitable separation ; and if she now and then 
 broke out into complaints and murmurs, it was either that 
 she could not altogether suppress the natural impetuosity 
 of her temper, or because she had the wit to consider, 
 that a total and unreserved acquiescence might have 
 seemed to her son constrained and suspicious, and induc- 
 ed him to watch and defeat the means by which she still 
 hoped to prevent his leaving her. Her ardent, though 
 selfish affection for her son, incapable of being qualified 
 by a regard for the true interests of the unfortunate ob- 
 ject of her attachment, resembled the instinctive fond- 
 ness of the animal race for their offspring ; and diving 
 little farther into futurity than one of the inferior crea- 
 tures, she only felt, that to be separated from Hamish was 
 to die. 
 
 In the brief interval permitted them, Elspat exhausted 
 every art which affection could devise, to render agreea- 
 ble to him the space which they were apparently to spend 
 
TIIE CANONGATE. 
 
 125 
 
 with each other. Her memory carried her far back into 
 former days, and her stores of legendary history, which 
 furnish at all times a principal amusement of the High- 
 lander in his moments of repose, were augmented by an 
 unusual acquaintance with the songs of ancient bards, and 
 traditions of the most approved Seannachies and tellers 
 of tales. Her officious attentions to her son’s accommo- 
 dation, indeed, were so unremitted as almost to give him 
 pain ; and he endeavoured quietly to prevent her from 
 taking so much personal toil in selecting the blooming 
 heath for his bed, or preparing the meal for his refresh- 
 ment. “ Let me alone, Hamish,” she would reply on 
 such occasions ; “ you follow your own will in departing 
 from your mother, let your mother have hers in doing 
 what gives her pleasure while you remain.” 
 
 So much she seemed to be reconciled to the arrange- 
 ments which he had made in her behalf, that she could hear 
 him speak to her of her removing to the lands of Green 
 Colin, as the gentleman was called, on whose estate he 
 had provided her an asylum. In truth, however, nothing 
 could be farther from her thoughts. From what he had 
 said during their first violent dispute, Elspat had gather- 
 ed, that if Hamish returned not by the appointed time 
 permitted by his furlough, he would incur the hazard of 
 corporal punishment. Were he placed within the risk of 
 being thus dishonoured, she was well aware that he would 
 never submit to the disgrace, by a return to the regiment 
 where it might be inflicted. Whether she looked to any 
 farther probable consequences of her unhappy scheme, 
 cannot be known ; but the partner of MacTavish Mhor, 
 in all his perils and wanderings, was familiar with an hun- 
 dred instances of resistance or escape, by which one 
 brave man, amidst a land of rocks, lakes, and mountains, 
 dangerous passes, and dark forests, might baffle the pur- 
 suit of hundreds. For the future, therefore, she feared 
 nothing ; her sole engrossing object was to prevent her 
 son from keeping his word with his commanding officer, 
 
 1 1 * VOL. I. 
 
126 
 
 CHRONICLES OF 
 
 “ Mr. Adam Hartley, I beg to know why I am hon- 
 oured by your sorrow 9” 
 
 “ 1 pity you,” answered Hartley, “ both for the obsti- 
 nacy of selfishness, which can think of wealth, after the 
 scene you saw last night, and for the idle vision which 
 leads you to believe that you can obtain possession of it.” 
 “ Selfish !” cried Middlemas ; “ why, 1 am a dutiful 
 son, labouring to clear the memory of a calumniated 
 mother — And ami a visionary — Why, it was to this 
 hope that I aw’akened, when old Monqada’s letter to Grey, 
 devoting me to perpetual obscurity, first roused me to a 
 sense of my situation, and dispelled the dreams of my 
 childhood. Do you think that 1 would ever have sub- 
 mitted to the drudgery which I shared with you, but that, 
 by doing so, 1 kept in view the only traces of these un- 
 natural parents, by means of which I proposed to intro- 
 duce myself to their notice, and, if necessary, enforce 
 the rights of a legitimate child 9 The silence and death 
 of Monqada broke my plans, and it was then only I re- 
 conciled myself to the thoughts of India.” 
 
 “ You were very young, to have known so much of 
 the Scottish law, at the time when we were first acquaint- 
 ed,” said Hartley. “ But I can guess your instructer.” 
 “ No less authority than Tom Hillary’s,” replied Mid- 
 dlemas. “ His good counsel on that head is a reason why 
 I do not now prosecute him to the gallows.” 
 
 “ 1 judged as much,” replied Hartley ; “ for I heard 
 him, before I left Middlemas, debating the point with Mr. 
 Lawford ; and I recollect perfectly, that he stated the 
 law to be such as you now lay down.” 
 
 “ And what said Lawford in answer ?” demanded 
 Middlemas. 
 
 “ He admitted,” replied Hartley, “ that in circum- 
 stances where the case was doubtful, such presumptions 
 of legitimacy might be admitted. But he said they were 
 liable to' be controlled by positive and precise testimony, 
 as, for instance, the evidence of the mother declaring the 
 illegitimacy of the child.” 
 
THE CANONGATE. 
 
 127 
 
 “ But there can exist none such in my case,” said 
 Middlemas hastily, and with marks of alarm. 
 
 “ 1 will not deceive you, Mr. Middlemas, though I fear 
 I cannot help giving you pain. 1 had yesterday a long 
 conference with your mother, Mrs. YVitherington, in which 
 she acknowledged you as her son, but a son born before 
 marriage. This express declaration will, therefore, put 
 an end to the suppositions on which you ground your 
 hopes. If you please you may hear the contents of her 
 declaration, which 1 have in her own handwriting.” 
 
 “ Confusion ! is the cup to be for ever dashed from 
 my lips V 9 muttered Richard ; but recovering his com- 
 posure, by exertion of the self-command of which he 
 possessed so large a portion, he desired Hartley to pro- 
 ceed with his communication. Hartley accordingly pro- 
 ceeded to inform him of the particulars preceding his 
 birth, and those which followed after it ; while Middlemas, 
 seated on a sea-chest, listened with inimitable composure 
 to a tale which went to root up the flourishing hopes 
 of wealth which he had lately so fondly entertained. 
 
 Zilia Monqada was the only child of a Portuguese Jew 
 of great wealth, who had come to London, in prosecution 
 of his commerce. Among the few Christians who fre- 
 quented his house, and occasionally his table, was Richard 
 Tresham, a gentleman of a high Northumbrian family, 
 deeply engaged in the service of Charles Edward during 
 his short invasion, and though holding a commission in the 
 Portuguese service, still an object of suspicion to the 
 British government, on account of his well-known cour- 
 age and Jacobitical principles. The high-bred elegance 
 of this gentleman, together with his complete acquaint- 
 ance with the Portuguese language and manners, had won 
 the intimacy of old Monqada, and, alas ! the heart of the 
 inexperienced Zilia, who, beautiful as an angel, had as 
 little knowledge of the world and its wickedness as the 
 lamb that is but a week old. 
 
 Tresham made his proposals to Mon^ada, perhaps in 
 a manner which too evidently showed that he conceived 
 the high-born Christian was degrading himself in asking 
 
128 
 
 CHRONICLES OE 
 
 which thus passed before him in the twilight. He no 
 longer strove to make up to the stranger, but contented 
 himself with keeping him in view, under the superstition 
 common to the Highlanders, that you ought neither to in- 
 trude yourself on such supernatural apparitions as you 
 may witness, nor avoid their presence, but leave it to 
 themselves to withhold or extend their communication, as 
 their power may permit, or the purpose of their commis- 
 sion require. 
 
 Upon an elevated knoll by the side of the road, just 
 where the pathway turned down to Elspat’s hut, the 
 stranger made a pause, and seemed to await Hamish’s 
 coming up. Hamish, on his part, seeing it was necessa- 
 ry he should pass the object of his suspicion, mustered 
 up his courage, and approached the spot where the stran- 
 ger had placed himself ; who first pointed to Elspat’s hut, 
 and made, with arm and head, a gesture prohibiting Ha- 
 mish to approach it, then stretched his hand to the road 
 which led to the southward, with a motion which seemed 
 to enjoin his instant departure in that direction. In a 
 moment afterwards the plaided form was gone — Hamish 
 did not exactly say vanished, because there were rocks 
 and stunted trees enough to have concealed him ; but it 
 was his own opinion that he had seen the spirit of Mac- 
 Tavish Mhor, warning him to commence his instant jour- 
 ney to Dunbarton, without waiting till morning, or again 
 visiting his mother’s hut. 
 
 In fact, so many accidents might arise to delay his 
 journey, especially where there were many ferries, that it 
 became his settled purpose, though he could not depart 
 without bidding his mother adieu, that he neither could 
 nor would abide longer than for that object ; and that the 
 fir§t glimpse of next day’s sun should see him many miles 
 advanced towards Dunbarton. He descended the path, 
 therefore, and entering the cottage, he communicated, in 
 a hasty and troubled voice, which indicated mental agita- 
 tion, his determination to take his instant departure. 
 Somewhat to his surprise, Elspat appeared not to combat 
 his purpose, but she urged him to take some refreshment 
 
TIIE CANONCATE. 
 
 J29 
 
 ere he left her for ever. He did so hastily, and in silence, 
 thinking on the approaching separation, and scarce yet 
 believing it would lake place without a final struggle with 
 his mother’s fondness. To his surprise, she filled the 
 quaigh with liquor for his parting cup. 
 
 “ Go,” she said, “ my son, since such is thy settled 
 purpose ; but first stand once more on thy mother’s 
 hearth, the flame on which will be extinguished long ere 
 thy foot shall again be placed there.” 
 
 “ To your health, mother !” said Hamish, “ and may 
 we meet again in happiness, in spite of your ominous 
 words.” 
 
 “ It were better not to part,” said his mother, watch- 
 ing him as he quaffed the liquor, of which he would have 
 held it ominous to have left a drop. 
 
 “ And now,” she said, muttering the words to herself, 
 “ go — if thou canst go.” 
 
 “ Mother,” said Hamish, as he replaced on the table 
 the empty quaigh, “ thy drink is pleasant to the taste, but 
 it takes away the strength which it ought to give.” 
 
 “ Such is its first effect, my son,” replied Elspat ; 
 “ but lie down upon that soft heather couch, shut your 
 eyes but for a moment, and, in the sleep of an hour, you 
 shall have more refreshment than in the ordinary repose 
 of three whole nights, could they be blended into one.” 
 “ Mother,” said Hamish, upon whose brain the potion 
 was now taking rapid effect, “ give me my bonnet — I 
 must kiss you and begone — yet it seems as if my feet 
 were nailed to the floor.” 
 
 “ Indeed,” said his mother, “ you will be instantly 
 well, if you will sit down for half an hour — but half an 
 hour ; it is eight hours to dawn, and dawn were time 
 enough for your father’s son to begin such a journey.” 
 
 “ I must obey you, mother — I feel I must,” said Ha- 
 mish, inarticulately ; “ but call me when the moon rises.” 
 He sat down on the bed — reclined back, and almost 
 instantly was fast asleep. With the throbbing glee of one 
 who has brought to an end a difficult and troublesome en- 
 terprize, Elspat proceeded tenderly to arrange the plaid 
 
130 
 
 CHRONICLES OF 
 
 of the unconscious slumberer, to whom her extrava- 
 gant affection was doomed to be so fatal, expressing, 
 while busied in her office, her delight, in tones of min- 
 gled tenderness and triumph. “Yes,” she said, “ calf 
 of my heart, the moon shall arise and set to thee, and so 
 shall the sun ; but not to light thee from the land of thy 
 fathers, or tempt thee to serve the foreign prince or the 
 feudal enemy ! To no son of Dermid shall 1 be delivered, 
 to be fed like a bondswoman ; but he who is my pleas- 
 ure and my pride shall be my guard and my protector. 
 They say the Highlands are changed ; but 1 see Ben 
 Cruachan rear his crest as high as ever into the evening 
 sky — no one hath yet herded his kine on the depth of 
 Lochawe — and yonder oak does not yet bend like a wil- 
 low. The children of the mountains will be such as their 
 fathers, until the mountains themselves shall be levelled 
 with the strath. In these wild forests, which used to 
 support thousands of the brave, there is still surely sub- 
 sistence and refuge left for one aged woman, and one 
 gallant youth, of the ancient race and the ancient man- 
 ners.” 
 
 While the misjudging mother thus exalted in the suc- 
 cess of her stratagem, we may mention to the reader, 
 that it was founded on the acquaintance with drugs and 
 simples, which Elspat, accomplished in all things belong- 
 ing to the wild life which she had led, possessed in an un- 
 common degree, and which she exercised for various pur- 
 poses. With the herbs, which she knew how to select as 
 well as how to distil, she could relieve more diseases 
 than a regular medical person could easily believe. She 
 applied some to dye the bright colours of the tartan — 
 from others she compounded draughts of various powers, 
 and unhappily possessed the secret of one which was 
 strongly soporific. Upon the effects of this last concoc- 
 tion, as the reader doubtless has anticipated, she reckon- 
 ed with security on delaying Hamish beyond the period 
 for which his return was appointed ; and she trusted to 
 his horror for the apprehended punishment to which he 
 
THE CANONGATE. 
 
 131 
 
 was thus rendered liable, to prevent him from returning 
 at all. 
 
 Sound and deep, beyond natural rest, was the sleep of 
 Hamish MacTavish on that eventful evening, but not such 
 the repose of bis mother. Scarce did she close her eyes 
 from time to time, but she awakened again with a start, 
 in the terror that her son had arisen and departed ; and 
 it was only on approaching his couch, and hearing his 
 deep-drawn and regular breathing, that she reassured 
 herself of the security of the repose in which he was 
 plunged. 
 
 Still, dawning, she feared, might awaken him, notwith- 
 standing the unusual strength of the potion with which she 
 had drugged his cup. If there remained a hope of mor- 
 tal man accomplishing the journey, she was aware that 
 Hamish would attempt it, though he were to die from 
 fatigue upon the road. Animated by this new fear, she 
 studied to exclude the light, by stopping all the crannies 
 and crevices through which, rather than through any reg- 
 ular entrance, the morning beams might find access to 
 her miserable dwelling ; and this in order to detain amid 
 its wants and wretchedness the being, on whom, if the 
 world itself had been at her disposal, she would have 
 joyfully conferred it. 
 
 Her pains were bestowed unnecessarily. The sun rose 
 high above the heavens, and not the fleetest stag in Bread- 
 albane, were the hounds at his heels, could have sped, to 
 save his life, so fast as would have been necessary to 
 keep Hamish’s appointment. Her purpose was fully at- 
 tained — her son’s return within the period assigned was 
 impossible. She deemed it equally impossible, that he 
 would ever dream of returning, standing, as he must now 
 do, in the danger of an infamous punishment. By de- 
 grees, and at different times, she had gained from him a 
 full acquaintance with the predicament in which he would 
 be placed by failing to appear on the day appointed, and 
 the very small hope he could entertain of being treated 
 with lenity. 
 
132 
 
 CHRONICLES OF 
 
 It is well known, that the great and wise Earl of Chat- 
 ham prided himself on the scheme, by which he drew to- 
 gether for defence of the colonies those hardy Highland- 
 ers, who, until his time, had been the objects of doubt, 
 fear, and suspicion, on the part of each successive admin- 
 istration. But some obstacles occurred, from the peculiar 
 habits and temper of this people, to the execution of his 
 patriotic project. By nature and habit, every Highlander 
 was accustomed to the use of arms, but at the same time 
 totally unaccustomed to, and impatient of, the restraints 
 imposed by discipline upon regular troops. They were a 
 species of militia, who had no conception of a camp as 
 their only home. If a battle was lost, they dispersed to 
 save themselves, and look out for the safety of their fam- 
 ilies ; if won, they went back to their glens to hoard up 
 their booty, and attend to their cattle and their farms. 
 This privilege of going and coming at their pleasure, they 
 would not be deprived of even by their Chiefs, whose au- 
 thority was in most other respects so despotic. It follow- 
 ed as a matter of course, that the new-levied Highland 
 recruits could scarce be made to comprehend the nature of 
 a military engagement, which compelled a man to serve 
 in the army longer than he pleased ; and perhaps, in 
 many instances sufficient care was not taken at enlisting to 
 explain to them the permanency of the engagement which 
 they came under, lest such a disclosure should induce 
 them to change their mind. Desertions were therefore 
 become numerous from the newly-raised regiment, and 
 the veteran General who commanded at Dunbarton, saw 
 no better way of checking them than by causing an unu- 
 sually severe example to be made of a deserter from an 
 English corps. The young Highland regiment was oblig- 
 ed to attend upon the punishment, which struck a people, 
 peculiarly jealous of personal honour, with equal horror 
 and disgust, and not unnaturally indisposed some of them 
 to the service. The old General, however, who had been 
 regularly bred in the German wars, stuck to his own opin- 
 ion, and gave out in orders that the first Highlander who 
 might either desert, or fail to appear at the expiry of his 
 
THE CANONGATE. 
 
 133 
 
 furlough, should be brought to the halberts, and punished 
 like the culprit whom they had seen in that condition. 
 
 No man doubted that General would keep his 
 
 word rigorously whenever severity was required, and 
 Elspat, therefore, knew that her son, when he perceived 
 that due compliance with his orders was impossible, must 
 at the same time#consider the degrading punishment de- 
 nounced against his defection as inevitable, should he place 
 himself within the General’s power. 
 
 When noon was well passed, new apprehensions came 
 on the mind of the lonely woman. Her son still slept 
 under the influence of the draught ; but what if, being 
 stronger than she had ever known it administered, his 
 health or his reason should be affected by its potency ? 
 For the first time, likewise, notwithstanding her high ideas 
 on the subject of parental authority, she began to dread 
 the resentment of her son, whom her heart told her she 
 had wronged. Of late, she had observed that his temper 
 was less docile, and his determinations, especially upon 
 this late occasion of his enlistment, independently formed, 
 and then boldly carried through. She remembered the 
 the stem wilfulness of his father when he accounted him- 
 self ill-used, and began to dread that Hamish, upon find- 
 ing the deceit she had put upon him, might resent it even 
 to the extent of casting her off, and pursuing his own 
 course through the world alone. Such were the alarming 
 and yet the reasonable apprehensions which began to 
 crowd upon the unfortunate woman, after the apparent 
 success of her ill-advised stratagem. 
 
 It was near evening when Hamish first awoke, and then 
 he was far from being in the full possession either of his 
 mental or bodily powers. From his vague expressions 
 and disordered pulse, Elspat at first experienced much 
 apprehension ; but she used such expedients as her med- 
 ical knowledge suggested ; and in the course of the night, 
 she had the satisfaction to see him sink once more into a 
 deep sleep, which probably carried off the greater part of 
 the effects of the drug, for about sunrising she heard him 
 12 VOL. I. 
 
134 
 
 CHRONICLES OF 
 
 arise, and call to her for his bonnet. This she had pur- 
 posely removed, from a fear that he might awaken and 
 depart in the night-time, without her knowledge. 
 
 “ My bonnet — my bonnet,” cried Hamisb, “ it is time 
 to take farewell. Mother, your drink was too strong — 
 the sun is up — but with the next morning l will still see 
 the double summit of the ancient Dun. ♦My bonnet — my 
 bonnet ! mother, I must he instant in my departure.” 
 These expressions made it plain that poor Hamish was 
 unconscious that two nights and a day had passed since 
 he had drained the fatal quaigh, and Elspat had now to 
 venture on what she felt as the almost perilous, as well as 
 painful task, of explaining her machinations. 
 
 “ Forgive me, iny son,” she said, approaching Hamish, 
 and taking him by the hand with an air of deferential 
 awe, which perhaps she had not always used to his father, 
 even when in his moody fits. 
 
 “ Forgive you, mother — for what 9” said Hamish, 
 laughing ; “ for giving me a dram that was too strong, and 
 which, my head still feels this morning, or for hiding my 
 bonnet to keep me an instant longer 9 Nay, do you for- 
 give me. Give me the bonnet, and let that he done which 
 now must be done. Give me my bonnet, or I go without 
 it ; surely I am not to be delayed by so trifling a want as 
 that — 1, who have gone for years with only a strap of 
 deer’s hide to tie back my hair. Trifle not, but give it 
 me, or I must eo bareheaded, since to stay is impos- 
 sible.” 
 
 “ My son,” said Elspat, keeping fast hold of his hand, 
 “ what is done cannot be recalled ; could you borrow the 
 wings of yonder eagle, you would arrive at the Dun too 
 late for what you purpose, — too soon for what awaits you 
 there. You believe you see the sun rising for the first 
 time since you have seen him set, but yesterday beheld 
 him climb Ben Cruachan, though your eyes were closed 
 to his light.” 
 
 Hamish cast upon his mother a wild glance of extreme 
 terror, then instantly recovering himself, said — “ I am no 
 child to be cheated out of my purpose by such tricks as 
 
THE CANONGATE. 
 
 135 
 
 these — Farewell, mother, each moment is worth a life- 
 time.” 
 
 “ Stay,” she said, “ my dear — my deceived son ! rush 
 not on infamy and ruin — Yonder 1 see the priest upon the 
 high-road on his white horse — ask him the* day of the 
 month and week — let him decide between us.” 
 
 With the speed of an eagle, Hamish darted up the ac- 
 clivity, and stood by the minister of Glenorquhy, who 
 was pacing out thus early to administer consolation to a 
 distressed family near Buna we. 
 
 The good man was somewhat startled to behold an 
 armed Highlander, then so unusual a sight, and apparently 
 much agitated, stop his horse by the bridle, and ask him 
 with a faltering voice the day of the week and month. 
 “ Had you been where you should have been yesterday, 
 young man,” replied the clergyman, “ you would have 
 known that it was God’s Sabbath ; and that this is Mon- 
 day, the second day of the week, and twenty-first of the 
 month.” 
 
 “ And this is true 9” said Hamish. 
 
 “ As true,” answered the surprised minister, “ as that 
 I yesterday preached the word of God to this parish. — 
 What ails you, young man 1 — are you sick 9 — are you 
 in your right mind *?” 
 
 Hamish made no answer, only repeated to himself the 
 first expression of the clergyman — “ Had you been where 
 you should have been yesterday and so saying, he let 
 go the bridle, turned from the road, and descended the 
 path towards the hut, with the look and pace of one w 7 ho 
 was going to execution. The minister looked after him 
 with surprise ; but although he knew the inhabitant of 
 the hovel, the character of Elspat had not invited him to 
 open any communication with her, because she was gen- 
 erally reputed a Papist, or rather one indifferent to all 
 religion, except some superstitious observances which had 
 been handed down from her parents. On Hamish the 
 Reverend Mr. Tyrie had bestowed instructions when he 
 was occasionally thrown in his w r ay, and if the seed fell 
 among the brambles and thorns of a wild and uncultivat- 
 
136 
 
 CHRONICLES OF 
 
 ed disposition, it had not yet been entirely checked or 
 destroyed. There was something so ghastly in the pres- 
 ent expression of the youth’s features, that the good man 
 was tempted to go down to the hovel, and inquire whether 
 any distress* had befallen the inhabitants, in which his 
 presence might be consoling, and his ministry useful. 
 Unhappily he did not persevere in this resolution, which 
 might have saved a great misfortune, as he would have 
 probably become a mediator for the unfortunate young 
 man ; but recollection of the wild moods of such High- 
 landers as had been educated after the old fashion of the 
 country, prevented his interesting himself in the widow 
 and son of the far-dreaded robber MacTavish Mhor ; 
 and he thus missed an opportunity, which he afterwards 
 sorely repented, of doing much good. 
 
 When Hamish MacTavish entered his mother’s hut, it 
 was only to throw himself on the bed he had left, and 
 exclaiming, “ Undone, undone !” to give vent, in cries 
 of grief and anger, to his deep sense of the deceit which 
 had been practised on him, and of the cruel predicament 
 to which he was reduced. 
 
 Elspat was prepared for the first explosion of her son’s 
 passion, and said to herself, “ It is but the mountain tor- 
 rent, swelled by the thundershower. Let us sit and rest 
 us by the bank ; for all its present tumult, the time will 
 soon come when we may pass it dry-shod.” She suffer- 
 ed his complaints and bis reproaches, which were, even 
 in the midst of his agony, respectful and affectionate, to 
 die away without returning any answer ; and when, at 
 length, having exhausted all the exclamations of sorrow 
 which his language, copious in expressing the feelings of 
 the heart, affords to the sufferer, he sunk into a gloomy 
 silence, she suffered the interval to continue near an hour 
 ere she approached her son’s couch. 
 
 “ And now,” she said at length, with a voice in which 
 the authority of the mother was qualified by her tender- 
 ness, “ have you exhausted your idle sorrows, and are 
 you able to place what you have gained against what you 
 have lost 9 Is the false son of Dermid your brother, or 
 
TIIE CANOJYGATE. 
 
 137 
 
 the father of your tribe, that you weep because you can- 
 not bind yourself to his belt, and become one of those 
 who must do his bidding 9 Could you find in yonder dis- 
 tant country the lakes and the mountains that you leave 
 behind you here ? Can you hunt the deer of Breadalbane 
 in the forests of America, or will the ocean afford you the 
 silver-scaled salmon of the Awe 9 Consider, then, what 
 is your loss, and, like a wise man, set it against what you 
 have won.” 
 
 “ 1 have lost all, mother,” replied Hamish, “ since I 
 have broken my word, and lost my honour. I might tell 
 my tale, but who, oh, who would believe me 9” The 
 unfortunate young man again clasped his hands together, 
 and, pressing them to his forehead, hid his face upon 
 the bed. 
 
 Elspat was now really alarmed, and perhaps wished 
 the fatal deceit had been left unattempted. She had no 
 hope or refuge saving in the eloquence of persuasion, of 
 which she possessed no small share, though her total ig- 
 norance of the world as it actually existed, rendered its 
 energy unavailing. She urged her son, by every tender 
 epithet which a parent could bestow, to take care for his 
 own safety. 
 
 “ Leave me,” she said, “ to baffle your pursuers. I 
 will save your life — I will save your honour — I will tell 
 them that my fair-haired Hamish fell from the Corrie dhu 
 (black precipice) into the gulf, of which human eye never 
 beheld the bottom. I will tell them this, and 1 will fling 
 your plaid on the thorns which grow on the brink of the 
 precipice, that they may believe my words. They will 
 believe, and they will return to the Dun of the double- 
 crest ; for though the Saxon drum can call the living to die, 
 it cannot recall the dead to their slavish standard. Then 
 will we travel together far northward to the salt lakes of 
 Kintail, and place glens and mountains betwixt us and 
 the sons of Dermid. We will visit the shores of the dark 
 lake, and my kinsmen — (for was not my mother of the 
 children of Kenneth, and will thev not remember us with 
 12* VQU I. ' 
 
138 
 
 CHRONICLES OF 
 
 the old love 9) — my kinsmen will receive us with the af- 
 fection of the olden time, which lives in those distant 
 glens, where the Gael still dwell in their nobleness, un- 
 mingled with the churl Saxons, or with the base brood 
 that are their tools and their slaves.” 
 
 The energy of the language, somewhat allied to hyper- 
 bole, even in its most ordinary expressions, now seemed 
 almost too weak to afford Elspat the means of bringing 
 out the splendid picture which she presented to her son 
 of the land in which she proposed to him to take refuge. 
 Yet the colours were few with which she could paint her 
 Highland paradise. “ The hills,” she said, “ were higher 
 and more magnificent than those of Breadalbane — Ben- 
 Cruachan was but a dwarf to Skooroora. The lakes 
 were broader and larger, and abounded not only with fish, 
 but with the enchanted and amphibious animal which 
 gives oil to the lamp.* The deer were larger and more 
 numerous — the white-tusked boar, the chase of which the 
 brave loved best, was yet to be roused in these western 
 solitudes— the men were nobler, wiser, and stronger, than 
 the degenerate brood who lived under the Saxon banner. 
 The daughters of the land were beautiful, with blue eyes 
 and fair hair, and bosoms of snow, and out of these she 
 would choose a wife for Hamish, of blameless descent, 
 spotless fame, fixed and true affection, who should be in 
 their summer bothy as a beam of the sun, and in their 
 winter abode as the warmth of the needful fire.” 
 
 Such were the topics with which Elspat strove to 
 soothe the despair of her son, and to determine him, if 
 possible, to leave the fatal spot, on which he seemed re- 
 solved to linger. The style of her rhetoric was poetical, 
 but in other respects resembled that which, like other fond 
 mothers, she had lavished on Hamish, while a child or a 
 boy, in order to gain his consent to do something he had 
 no mind to ; and she spoke louder, quicker, and more 
 earnestly, in proportion as she began to despair of her 
 words carrying conviction. 
 
 * The seals are considered by the Highlanders as enchanted princes. 
 
THE CANONGATE. 
 
 139 
 
 On the mind of Hamish her eloquence made no im- 
 pression. He knew far better than she did the actual 
 situation of the country, and was sensible, that, though it 
 might be possible to hide himself as a fugitive among more 
 distant mountains, there was now no corner in the High- 
 lands in which his father’s profession could be practised, 
 even if he had not adopted, from the improved ideas of 
 the time when he lived, the opinion that the trade of the 
 cateran was no longer the road to honour and distinction. 
 Her words were therefore poured into regardless ears, 
 and she exhausted herself in vain in the attempt to paint 
 the regions of her mother’s kinsmen in such terms as 
 might tempt Hamish to accompany her thither. She 
 spoke for hours, but she spoke in vain. She could extort 
 no answer, save groans, and sighs, and ejaculations, ex- 
 pressing the extremity of despair. 
 
 Ai length, starting on her feet, and changing the mo- 
 notonous tone in which she had chanted, as it were, the 
 praises of the province of refuge, into the short, stern 
 language of eager passion — “ f am a fool,” she said, “ to 
 spend my words upon an idle, poor-spirited unintelligent 
 boy, who crouches like a hound to the lash. Wait here, 
 and receive your task-masters, and abide your chastise- 
 ment at their hands ; but do not think your mother’s eyes 
 will behold it. I could not see it and live. My eyes 
 have looked often upon death, but never upon dishonour. 
 Farewell, Hamish ! — We never meet again.” 
 
 She dashed from the hut like a lapwing, and perhaps 
 for the moment actually entertained the purpose which 
 she expressed, of parting with her son for ever. She 
 would have been a fearful sight that evening to those who 
 might have met her wandering through the wilderness like 
 a restless spirit, and speaking to herself in language which 
 will endure no translation. She rambled for hours, seek- 
 ing rather than shunning the most dangerous paths. The 
 precarious track through the morass, the dizzy path along 
 the edge of the precipice, or by the banks of the gulfing 
 river, were the roads which, far from avoiding, she sought 
 with eagerness, and traversed with reckless haste. But 
 
140 
 
 CHRONICLES OF 
 
 the courage arising from despair was the means of saving 
 the life, which, (though deliberate suicide was rarely 
 practised in the Highlands,) she was perhaps desirous of 
 terminating. Her step on the verge of the precipice was 
 firm as that of the wild goat. Her eye, in that state of 
 excitation, was so keen as to discern, even amid darkness, 
 the perils which noon would not have enabled a stranger 
 to avoid. 
 
 Elspat’s course was not directly forward, else she had 
 soon been far from the bothy in which she had left her 
 son. It was circuitous, for that hut was the centre to 
 which her heart-strings were chained, and though she 
 wandered around it, she felt it impossible to leave the vi- 
 cinity. With the first beams of morning, she returned to 
 the hut. Awhile she paused at the wattled door, as if 
 ashamed that lingering fondness should have brought her 
 back to the spot which she had left with the purpose of 
 never returning ; but there was yet more of fear and anx- 
 iety in her hesitation — of anxiety, lest her fair-haired son 
 had suffered from the effects of her potion: — of fear, lest 
 his enemies had come upon him in the night. She open- 
 ed the door of the hut gently, and entered with noiseless 
 step. Exhausted with his sorrow and anxiety, and not 
 entirely relieved perhaps from the influence of the power- 
 ful opiate, Hamish Bean again slept the stern sound sleep, 
 by which the Indians are said to be overcome during the 
 interval of their torments. His mother was scarcely sure 
 that she actually discerned his form on the bed, scarce 
 certain that her ear caught the sound of his breathing. 
 With a throbbing heart, Eispat went to the fire-place in 
 the centre of the hut, where slumbered, covered with a 
 piece of turf, the glimmering embers of the fire, never ex- 
 tinguished on a Scottish hearth until the indwellers leave 
 the mansion for ever. 
 
 “ Feeble greishogh,”* she said, as she lighted, by the 
 help of a match, a splinter of bog pine which was to serve 
 the place of a candle ; “ weak greishogh, soon shalt 
 
 Greishogh, a glowing ember. 
 
THE CANONGATE. 
 
 141 
 
 thou be put out for ever, and may Heaven grant that the 
 life of Elspat MacTavish have no longer duration than 
 thine !” 
 
 While she spoke she raised the blazing light towards 
 the bed, on which still lay the prostrate limbs of her son, 
 in a posture that left it doubtful whether he slept or swoon- 
 ed. As she advanced towards him, the light (lashed upon 
 his eyes — he started up in an instant, made a stride for- 
 ward with his naked dirk in his hand, like a man armed 
 to meet a mortal enemy, and exclaimed, “ Stand off! 
 — on thy life, stand off !” 
 
 “ It is the word and the action of my husband,” an- 
 swered Elspat ; “ and I know by his speech and his step 
 the son of MacTavish Mhor.” 
 
 “Mother,” said Hamish, relapsing from his tone of 
 desperate firmness into one of melancholy expostulation ; 
 “ oh, dearest mother, wherefore have you returned 
 hither V 9 
 
 “ Ask why the hind comes back to the fawn,” said 
 Elspat ; “ why the cat of the mountain returns to her 
 lodge and her young. Know you, Hamish, that the heart 
 of the mother only lives in the bosom of the child.” 
 
 “ Then will it soon cease to throb,” said Hamish, 
 “ unless it can beat within a bosom that lies beneath the 
 turf. — Mother, do not blame me ; if I w^eep, it is not for 
 myself but for you, for my sufferings will soon be over ; 
 
 but yours O, who but Heaven shall set a boundary 
 
 to them !” 
 
 Elspat shuddered and stepped backward, but almost 
 instantly resumed her firm and upright position, and her 
 dauntless bearing. 
 
 “ I thought thou w T ert a man but even now,” she said, 
 “ and thou art again a child. Hearken to me yet, and 
 let us leave this place together. Have I done thee wrong 
 or injury if so, yet do not avenge it so cruelly — See, 
 Elspat MacTavish, who never kneeled before even to a 
 priest, falls prostrate before her own son, and craves his 
 forgiveness.” And at once she threw herself on her 
 knees before the young man, seized on his hand, and 
 
142 
 
 CHRONICLES OF 
 
 kissing it an hundred times, repeated as often in heart- 
 breaking accents, the most earnest entreaties for forgive- 
 ness. “ Pardon,” she exclaimed, “ pardon, for the sake 
 of your father’s ashes — pardon for the sake of the pain 
 with which 1 bore thee, the care with which I nurtured 
 thee ! — Hear it, Heaven, and behold it Earth — the moth- 
 er asks pardon of her child, and she is refused!” 
 
 It was in vain that Hamish endeavoured to stem this 
 tide of passion, by assuring his mother, with the most sol- 
 emn asseverations, that he forgave entirely the fatal de- 
 ceit which she had practised upon him. 
 
 “ Empty words,” she said ; “ idle protestations, which 
 are but used to hide the obduracy of your resentment. 
 Would you have me believe you, then leave the hut this 
 instant, and retire from a country which every hour ren- 
 ders more dangerous. — Do this, and I may think you have 
 forgiven me— refuse it, and again I call on moon and stars, 
 heaven and earth, to witness the unrelenting resentment 
 with which you prosecute your mother for a fault, which, 
 if it be one, arose out of love to you.” 
 
 “ Mother,” said Hamish, “ on this subject you move 
 me not. 1 will fly before no man. If Barcaldine should 
 send every Gael that is under his banner, here, and in 
 this place, will I abide them ; and when you bid me fly, 
 you may as well command yonder mountain to be loos- 
 ened from its foundations. Had I been sure of the road 
 by which they are coming hither, 1 had spared them the 
 pains of seeking me ; but I might go by the mountain, 
 while they perchance came by the lake. Here I will 
 abide my fate ; nor is there in Scotland a voice of power 
 enough to bid me stir from hence, and be obeyed.” 
 
 “ Here, then, I also stay,” said Elspat, rising up and 
 speaking with assumed composure. “ I have seen my 
 husband’s death — my eyelids shall not grieve to look on 
 the fall of my son. But MacTavish Mhor died as be- 
 came the brave, with his good sword in his right hand ; 
 my son will perish like the bullock that is driven to the 
 shambles by the Saxon owner who has bought him for a 
 price,” 
 
THE CANONGATE. 
 
 143 
 
 “ Mother,” said the unhappy young man, “ you have 
 taken my life ; to that you have a right, for you gave it ; 
 but touci) not my honour ! It came to me from a brave 
 strain of ancestors, and should be sullied neither by man’s 
 deed nor woman’s speech. What I shall do, perhaps I 
 myself yet know not ; but tempt me no farther by re- 
 proachful words ; you have already made wounds more 
 than you can ever heal.” 
 
 “ It is well, my son,” said Elspat, in reply. “ Expect 
 neither farther complaint nor remonstrance from me ; but 
 let us be silent, and wait the chance which Heaven shall 
 send us.” 
 
 The sun arose on the next morning, and found the 
 bothy silent as the grave. The mother and son had 
 arisen, and were engaged each in their separate task — 
 Hamish in preparing and cleaning his arms with the 
 greatest accuracy, but with an air of deep dejection. 
 Elspat, more restless in her agony of spirit, employed 
 herself in making ready the food which the distress of 
 yesterday had induced them both to dispense with for an 
 unusual number of hours. She placed it on the board 
 before her son so soon as it was prepared, with the words 
 of a Gaelic poet, “ Without daily food, the husbandman’s 
 plough share stands still in the furrow; without daily food, 
 the sword of the warrior is too heavy for his hand. Our 
 bodies are our slaves, yet they must be fed if we would 
 have their service. So spake in ancient days the Blind 
 Bard to the warriors of Fion.” 
 
 The young man made no reply, but he fed on what 
 was placed before him, as if to gather strength for the 
 scene which he was to undergo. When his mother saw 
 that he had eaten what sufficed him, she again filled the 
 fatal quaigh, and proffered it as the conclusion of the 
 repast. But he started aside with a convulsive gesture, 
 expressive at once of fear and abhorrence. 
 
 “ Nay, my son,” she said, “ this time, surely, thou 
 hast no cause of fear.” 
 
 “ Urge me not, mother,” answered Hamish ; “ or put 
 the leprous toad into a flagon, and I will drink it ; but from 
 
144 
 
 CHRONICLES OF 
 
 that accursed cup, and of that mind-destroying potion, 
 never will I taste more !” 
 
 “ At your pleasure, my son,” said Elspat, haughtily, 
 and began, with much apparent assiduity, the various do- 
 mestic tasks which had been interrupted during the pre- 
 ceding day. Whatever was at her heart, all anxiety 
 seemed banished from her looks and demeanour. It w'as 
 but from an over activity of bustling exertion that it might 
 have been perceived, by a close observer, that her actions 
 were spurred by some internal cause of painful excite- 
 ment ; and such a spectator, too, might also have observed 
 how often she broke off the snatches of songs or tunes 
 which she hummed, apparently without knowing what she 
 was doing, in order to cast a hasty glance from the door 
 of the hut. Whatever might be in the mind of Hamish, 
 his demeanour was directly the reverse of that adopted 
 by his mother. Having finished the task of cleaning and 
 preparing his arms, which he arranged within the hut, 
 he sat himself down before the door of the bothy, and 
 watched the opposite hill, like the fixed sentinel who ex- 
 pects the approach of an enemy. Noon found him in 
 the same unchanged posture, and it was an hour after 
 that period, when his mother, standing beside him, laid her 
 hand on his shoulder, and said, in a tone indifferent, as if 
 she had been talking of some friendly visit, “ When dost 
 thou expect them V 9 
 
 “ They cannot be here till the shadows fall long to the 
 eastward,” replied Hamish ; “ that is, even supposing 
 the nearest party, commanded by Sergeant Allan Breack 
 Cameron, has been commanded hither by express from 
 Dunbarton, as it is most likely they will.” 
 
 “ Then enter beneath your mother’s roof once more ; 
 partake the last time of the fo«d which she has prepared ; 
 after this let them come, and thou shalt see if thy mother 
 is an useless encumbrance in the day of strife. Thy hand, 
 practised as it is, cannot fire these arms so fast as I can 
 load them ; nay, if it is necessary, I do not myself fear 
 the flash or the report, and my aim has been held fatal.” 
 
THE CANONGATE. 
 
 145 
 
 “ In the name of Heaven, mother, meddle not with 
 this matter !” said Hamish. “ Allan Breack is a wise 
 man and a kind one, and comes of a good stem. It may 
 be he can promise for our officers, that they will touch 
 me with no infamous punishment ; and if they offer me 
 confinement in the dungeon, or death by the musket, to 
 that I may not object.” 
 
 “ Alas, and wilt thou trust to their word, my foolish 
 child ? Remember the race of Dermid were ever fair 
 and false, and no sooner shall they have gyves on thy 
 hands, than they will strip thy shoulders for the scourge.” 
 
 “ Save your advice, mother,” said Hamish, sternly ; 
 “ for me, my mind is made up.” 
 
 But though he spoke thus, to escape the almost perse- 
 cuting urgency of his mother, Hamish would have found 
 it, at that moment, impossible to say upon what course of 
 conduct he had thus fixed. On one point alone he was 
 determined, namely, to abide his destiny, be what it might, 
 and not to add to the breach of his word, of which he 
 had been involuntarily rendered guilty, by attempting to 
 escape from punishment. This act of self-devotion he 
 conceived to be due to his own honour, and that of his 
 countrymen. Which of his comrades would in future be 
 trusted, if he should be considered as having broken his 
 word, and betrayed the confidence of his officers ? and 
 whom but Hamish Bean MacTavish would the Gael ac- 
 cuse, for having verified and confirmed the suspicions 
 which the Saxon General was well known to entertain 
 against the good faith of the Highlanders 9 He was, there- 
 fore, bent firmly to abide his fate. But whether his inten- 
 tion was to yield himself peaceably into the hands of the 
 party who should come to apprehend him, or whether he 
 purposed by a show of resistance to provoke them to kill 
 him on the spot, was a question which he could not him- 
 self have answered His desire to see Barcaldine, and 
 explain the cause of his absence at the appointed time, 
 urged him to the one course ; his fear of the degrading 
 punishment, and of his mother’s bitter upbraidings, strong- 
 13 VOL. I. 
 
146 
 
 CHRONICLES OF 
 
 ly instigated the latter and the more dangerous purpose. 
 He left it to chance to decide when the crisis should 
 arrive ; nor did he tarry long in expectation of the catas- 
 trophe. 
 
 Evening approached, the gigantic shadows of the moun- 
 tains streamed in darkness towards the east, while their 
 western .peaks were still glowing with crimson and gold. 
 The road which winds round Ben Cruachan was fully 
 visible from the door of the bothy, when a party of five 
 Highland soldiers, whose arms glanced in the sun, wheel- 
 ed suddenly into sight from the most distant extremity, 
 where the highway is hidden behind the mountain. One 
 of the party walked a little before the other four, who 
 marched regularly and in files, according to the rules of 
 military discipline. There v/as no dispute, from the fire- 
 locks which they carried, and the plaids and bonnets 
 which they wore, that they were a party of Hamish’s 
 regiment, under a non-commissioned officer ; and there 
 could be as little doubt of the purpose of their appearance 
 on the banks of Loch Awe. 
 
 “ They come briskly forward — ” said the widow 7 of 
 MacTavjsh Mhor, — “ I wonder how fast or how slow 
 some of them will return again. But they are five, and 
 it is too much odds for a fair field. Step back within the 
 hut, my son, and shoot from the loophole beside the door. 
 Two you may bring down ere they quit the high road for 
 the footpath — there will remain but three ; and your fa- 
 ther, with my aid, has often stood against that number.” 
 
 Harnish Bean took the gun which his mother offered, 
 but did not stir from the door of the hut. He was soon 
 visible to the party on the high road, as was evident from 
 their increasing their pace to a run ; the files, however, 
 still keeping together like coupled greyhounds, and ad- 
 vancing with great rapidity. In far less time than would 
 have been accomplished by men less accustomed to the 
 mountains, they had left the high road, traversed the nar- 
 row path, and approached within pistol-shot of the bothy, 
 at the door of which stood Harnish, fixed like a statue of 
 stone, with his firelock in his hand, while his mother, 
 
THE CANON GATE. 
 
 147 
 
 plaaed behind him, and almost driven to frenzy by the 
 violence of her passions, reproached him in the strongest 
 terms which despair could invent, for his want of resolu- 
 tion and faintness of heart. Her words increased the 
 hitter gall which was arising in the young man’s own heart, 
 as he observed the unfriendly speed with which his late 
 comrades were eagerly making towards him, like hounds 
 towards a stag when he is at hay. The untamed and 
 angry passions which he inherited from father and moth- 
 er, were awakened by the supposed hostility of those who 
 pursued him ; and the restraint under which these pas- 
 sions had been hitherto held by his sober judgment, be- 
 gan gradually to give way. The sergeant now called to 
 him, 44 Hamish Bean MaeTavish, lay down your arms 
 and surrender.” 
 
 44 Do you stand, Allan Breack Cameron, and command 
 your men to stand, or it will be the worse for us all.” 
 
 44 Halt, men — ” said the sergeant, but continuing him- 
 self to advance. 44 Hamish, think what you do, and give 
 up your gun ; you may spill blood, but you cannot escape 
 punishment.” 
 
 44 The scourge — the scourge — my son, beware the 
 scourge,” whispered his mother. 
 
 44 Take heed, Allan Breack,” said Hamish. 44 I would 
 not hurt you willingly, — but 1 will not be taken unless you 
 can assure me against the Saxon lash.” 
 
 44 Fool !” answered Cameron, 44 you know I cannot. 
 Yet I will do all I can. 1 will say I met you on your re- 
 turn, and the punishment will be light — but give up your 
 musket — Come on, men.” 
 
 Instantly be rushed forward, extending his arm as if to 
 push aside the young man’s levelled firelock. Elspat 
 exclaimed, 44 Now, spare not your father’s blood to de- 
 fend your father’s hearth !” Hamish fired his piece, and 
 Cameron dropped dead. — All these things happened, it 
 might be said, in the same moment of time. The soldiers 
 rushed forward and seized Hamish, who, seeming petri- 
 fied with what he had done, offered not the least resistance. 
 Not so his mother, who, seeing the men about to put 
 
148 
 
 CHRONICLES OF 
 
 handcuffs on her son, threw herself on the soldiers with 
 such fury, that it required two of them to hold her, while 
 the rest secured the prisoner. 
 
 “ Are you not an accursed creature,” said one of the 
 men to Hamish, “ to have slain your best friend, who was 
 contriving, during the whole march, how he could find 
 some way of getting you off without punishment for your 
 desertion V 9 
 
 “ Do you hear that , mother 9” said Hamish, turning 
 himself as much towards her as his bonds would permit 
 — but the mother heard nothing, and saw nothing. She 
 had fainted on the floor of her hut. Without waiting for 
 her recovery, the party almost immediately began their 
 homeward march towards Dunbarton, leading along with 
 them their prisoner. They thought it necessary, how- 
 ever, to stay for a little space at the village of Dalmally, 
 from which they despatched a party of the inhabitants to 
 bring away the body of their unfortunate leader, while 
 they themselves repaired to a magistrate to state what had 
 happened, and require his instructions as to the farther 
 course to be pursued. The crime being of a military 
 character, they were instructed to march the prisoner to 
 Dunbarton without delay. 
 
 The swoon of the mother of Hamish lasted for a length 
 of time ; the longer perhaps that her constitution, strong 
 as it was, must have been much exhausted by her previous 
 agitation of three days’ endurance. She was roused from 
 her stupor at length by female voices, which cried the 
 coronach, or lament for the dead, with clapping of hands 
 and loud exclamations ; while the melancholy note of a 
 lament, appropriate to the clan Cameron, played on the 
 bagpipe, was heard from time to time. 
 
 Elspat started up like one aw T akened from the dead, 
 and without any accurate recollection of the scene which 
 had passed before her eyes. There were females in the 
 hut who were swathing the corpse in its bloody plaid be- 
 fore carrying it from the fatal spot. “ Women,” she said, 
 starting up and interrupting their chant at once and their 
 
THE CANONGATE. 
 
 149 
 
 labour — “ Tell me, women, why sing you the dirge of 
 MacDhonuil Dhu in the house of MacTavish Mhor 9” 
 
 “ She-wolf, be silent with thine ill-omened yell, an- 
 swered one of the females, a relation of the deceased, 
 “ and let us do our duty to our beloved kinsman. There 
 shall never be coronach cried, or dirge played, for thee 
 or thy bloody wolf-burd.* The ravens shall eat him 
 from the gibbet, and the foxes and wild cats shall tear thy 
 corpse upon the hill. Cursed be he that would sain your 
 bones, or add a stone to your cairn !” 
 
 “ Daughter of a foolish mother,” answered the widow 
 of MacTavish Mhor, “ know that the gibbet, with which 
 you threaten us, is no portion of our inheritance. For 
 thirty years the Black Tree of the Law, whose apples 
 are dead men’s bodies, hungered after the beloved hus- 
 band of my heart ; but he died like a brave man, with 
 the sword in his hand, and defrauded it of its hopes and 
 its fruit.” 
 
 “ So shall it not be with thy child, bloody sorceress,” 
 replied the female mourner, whose passions were as vio- 
 lent as those of Elspat herself. “ The ravens shall tear 
 his fair hair to line their nests, before the sun sinks beneath 
 the Treshornish islands.” 
 
 These words recalled to Elspat’s mind the whole his- 
 tory of the last three dreadful days. At first, she stood 
 fixed as if the extremity of distress had converted her into 
 stone ; but in a minute, the pride and violence of her 
 temper, out-braved as she thought herself on her own 
 threshold, enabled her to reply — “ Yes, insulting hag, my 
 fair-haired boy may die, but it will not be with a white 
 hand — it has been dyed in the blood of his enemy, in 
 the best blood of a Cameron — remember that ; and when 
 you lay your dead in his grave, let it be his best epitaph, 
 that he was killed by Hamish Bean for essaying to lay 
 hands on the son of MacTavish Mhor on his own thres- 
 
 * Wolf-brood, i. t. wolf-cub. 
 
 13 * VOL, I. 
 
150 
 
 CHRONICLES OF 
 
 hold. Farewell — the shame of defeat, loss, and slaugh- 
 
 ter, remain with the clan that has endured it !” 
 
 The relative of the slaughtered Cameron raised her 
 voice in reply ; but Elspat, disdaining to continue the ob- 
 jurgation, or perhaps feeling her grief likely to overmaster 
 her power of expressing her resentment, had left the hut, 
 and was walking forth in the bright moonshine. 
 
 The females who were arranging the corpse of the 
 slaughtered man, hurried from their melancholy labour 
 to look after her tall figure as it glided away among the 
 cliffs. “ 1 am glad she is gone,” said one of the younger 
 persons who assisted. “ I would as soon dress a corpse 
 where the great Fiend himself — God sain us — stood visi- 
 bly before us, than when Elspat of the Tree is amongst us. 
 — Ay — ay, even overmuch intercourse hath she had with 
 the Enemy in her day.” 
 
 “ Silly woman,” answered the female who had main- 
 tained the dialogue witli the departed Elspat, “ thinkest 
 thou that there is a worse fiend on earth, or beneath it, 
 than the pride and fury of an offended woman, like yon- 
 der bloody-minded hag '? Know that blood has been as 
 familiar to her as the dew to the mountain-daisy. Many 
 and many a brave man has she caused to breathe their 
 last for little wrong they had done to her or hers. But 
 her hough-sinews are cut, now that her wolf-burd must, 
 like a murderer as lie is, make a murderer’s end.” 
 
 Whilst the women thus discoursed together, as they 
 watched the corpse of Allan Breaek Cameron, the un- 
 happy cause of his death pursued her lonely way across 
 the mountain. While she remained within sight of the 
 bothy, she put a strong constraint on herself, that by no 
 alteration of pace or gesture, she might afford to her ene- 
 mies the triumph of calculating the excess of her mental 
 agitation, nay despair. She stalked, therefore, with a 
 slow rather than a swift step, and, holding herself upright, 
 seemed at once to endure with firmness that wo which 
 was passed, and hid defiance to that which was about to 
 come. But when she was beyond the sight of those who 
 remained in the hut, she could no longer suppre^ the 
 
TIIE CANON GATE. 
 
 loi 
 
 extremity of her agitation. Drawing her mantle wildly 
 round her, she stopped at the first knoll, and climbing to 
 its summit, extended her arms up to the bright moon, as 
 if accusing heaven and earth for her misfortunes, and 
 uttered scream on scream, like those of an eagle whose 
 nest has been plundered of her brood. Awhile she vent- 
 ed her grief in these inarticulate cries, then rushed on her 
 way with a hasty and unequal step, in the vain hope of 
 overtaking the party which was conveying her son a pris- 
 oner to Dunbarton. But her strength, superhuman as it 
 seemed, failed her in the trial, nor was it possible for her, 
 with her utmost efforts, to accomplish her purpose. 
 
 Yet she pressed onward, with all the speed which her 
 exhausted frame could exert. When food became in- 
 dispensable, she entered the first ccdtage : “ Give me to 
 eat,” she said ; “ I am the widow of MacTavish Mhor — 
 I am the mother of Hamish MacTavish Bean,— -give me 
 to eat, that I may once more see my fair-haired son.” 
 Her demand was never refused, though granted in many 
 cases with a kind of struggle between compassion and 
 aversion in some of those to whom she applied, which 
 was in others qualified by fear. The share she had had 
 in occasioning the death of Allan Breack Cameron, 
 which must probably involve that of her own son, was 
 not accurately known ; but, from knowledge of her vio- 
 lent passions and former habits of life, no one doubted that 
 in one way or other she had been the cause of the catas- 
 trophe ; and Hamish Bean was considered, in the slaugh- 
 ter which he had committed, rather as the instrument 
 than as the accomplice of his mother. 
 
 This general opinion of his countrymen was of little 
 service to the unfortunate Hamish. As his captain, 
 Green Colin, understood the manners and habits of his 
 country, he had no difficulty in collecting from Hamish 
 the particulars accompanying his supposed desertion, and 
 the subsequent death of the non-commissioned officer. 
 He felt the utmost compassion for a youth, who had thus 
 fallen a victim to the extravagant and fatal fondness of a 
 parent. But he had no excuse to plead which could res- 
 
152 
 
 CHRONICLES OF 
 
 cue his unhappy recruit from the doom, which military 
 discipline and the award of a court-martial denounced 
 against him for the crime he had committed. 
 
 No time had been lost in their proceedings, and as little 
 was interposed betwixt sentence and execution. General 
 
 had determined to make a severe example of the 
 
 first deserter who should fall into his power, and here was 
 one who had defended himself by main force, and slain 
 in the affray the officer sent to take him into custody. A 
 fitter subject for punishment could not have occurred, and 
 Hamish was sentenced to immediate execution. All which 
 the interference of his captain in his favour could procure, 
 was that he should die a soldier’s death ; for there had 
 been a purpose of executing him upon the gibbet. 
 
 The worthy clergyman of Glenorquhy chanced to be 
 at Dunbarton, in attendance upon some church courts, at 
 the time of this catastrophe. He visited his unfortunate 
 parishioner in his dungeon, found him ignorant indeed, 
 but not obstinate, and the answers which he received from 
 him, when conversing on religious topics, were such as 
 induced him doubly to regret, that a mind naturally pure 
 and noble should have remained unhappily so wild and 
 uncultivated. 
 
 When he ascertained the real character and disposition 
 of the young man, the worthy pastor made deep and pain- 
 ful reflections on his own shyness and timidity, which, 
 arising out of the evil fame that attached to the lineage of 
 Hamish, had restrained him from charitably endeavour- 
 ing to bring this strayed sheep within the great fold. 
 While the good minister blamed his cowardice in times 
 past, which had deterred him from risking his person, to 
 save, perhaps, an immortal soul, he resolved no longer to 
 be governed by such timid counsels, but to endeavour, by 
 application to his officers, to obtain a reprieve, at least, if 
 not a pardon, for the criminal, in whom he felt so unu- 
 sually interested, at once from his docility of temper and 
 his generosity of disposition. 
 
 Accordingly the divine sought out Captain Campbell 
 at the barracks within the garrison. There was a gloomy 
 
TIIE CANONGATE. 
 
 153 
 
 melancholy on the brow of Green Colin, which was not 
 lessened, but increased, when the clergyman stated his 
 name, quality, and errand. “ You cannot tell me better 
 of the young man than I am disposed to believe,” answer- 
 ed the Highland officer ; “ you cannot ask me to do more 
 in his behalf than 1 am of myself inclined, and have al- 
 ready endeavoured to do. But it is all in vain. General 
 
 is half a Lowlander, half an Englishman. He has 
 
 no idea of the high and enthusiastic character which in 
 these mountains often brings exalted virtues in contact 
 with great crimes, which, however, are less offences of 
 the heart than errors of the understanding. I have gone 
 so far as to tell him, that in this young man he was putting 
 to death the best and the bravest of my company, where 
 all, or almost all, are good and brave. I explained to 
 him by what strange delusion the culprit’s apparent de- 
 sertion was occasioned, and how little his heart was ac- 
 cessary to the crime which his hand unhappily committed. 
 His answer was, c There are Highland visions, Captain 
 Campbell, as unsatisfactory and vain as those of the sec- 
 ond sight. An act of gross desertion may, in any case, 
 be palliated under the plea of intoxication ; the murder 
 of an officer may be as easily coloured over with that of 
 temporary insanity. The example must be made, and if 
 it has fallen on a man otherwise a good recruit, it will 
 have the greater effect.’ — Such being the General’s un- 
 alterable purpose,” continued Captain Campbell, with a 
 sigh, “ be it your care, reverend sir, that your penitent 
 prepare by break of day to-morrow for that great change 
 which we shall all one day be subjected to.” 
 
 “ And for which,” said the clergyman, “ may God pre- 
 pare us all, as I in my duty will not be wanting to this 
 poor youth.” 
 
 Next morning as the very earliest beams of sunrise sa- 
 luted the grey towers which crown the summit of that sin- 
 gular and tremendous rock, the soldiers of the new High- 
 land regiment appeared on the parade, within the Castle of 
 Dunbarton, and having fallen into order, began to move 
 downward by steep staircases and narrow passages towards 
 
154 
 
 CHRONICLES OF 
 
 the external barrier-gate, which is at the very bottom of 
 the rock. The wild wailings of the pibroch were heard 
 at times, interchanged with the drums and files, which 
 beat the Dead March. 
 
 The unhappy criminal’s fate did not, at first, excite 
 that general sympathy in the regiment which would prob- 
 ably have arisen had he been executed for desertion alone. 
 The slaughter of the unfortunate Allan Breach had given 
 a different colour to Hamish’s offence; for the deceased 
 was much beloved, and besides belonged to a numerous 
 and powerful clan, of whom there were many in the ranks. 
 The;* unfortunate criminal, on the contrary, was little 
 known to, and scarcely connected with any of his regi- 
 mental companions. His father had been, indeed, dis- 
 tinguished for his strength and manhood ; but he was of 
 a broken clan, as those names were called, who had no 
 chief to lead them to battle. 
 
 It would have been almost impossible in another case, 
 to have turned out of the ranks of the regiment the party 
 necessary for execution of the sentence ; but the six in- 
 dividuals selected for that purpose, were friends of the 
 deceased, descended, like him, from the race of Mac- 
 Dhonuil Dhu ; and while they prepared for the dismal 
 task which their duty imposed, it was not without a stern 
 feeling of gratified revenge. The leading company of 
 the regiment began now to defile from the barrier-gate 
 and was followed by the others, each successively moving 
 and halting according to the orders of the Adjutant, so as to 
 form three sides of an oblong square, with the ranks faced 
 inwards. The fourth, or blank side of the square, was 
 closed up by the huge and lofty precipice on which the 
 Castle rises. About the centre of the procession, bare- 
 headed, disarmed, and with his hands bound, came the 
 unfortunate victim of military law. He was deadly pale, 
 but his step was firm and bis eye as bright as ever. The 
 clergyman walked by his side — the coffin, which was to 
 receive his mortal remains, was borne before him. The 
 looks of his comrades were still, composed, and solemn. 
 They felt for the youth, whose handsome form, and manly 
 
Til R C ANONGATE. 
 
 155 
 
 yet submissive deportment had, as soon as he was dis- 
 tinctly visible to them, softened the hearts of many, even 
 of some who had been actuated by vindictive feelings. 
 
 The coffin destined for the yet living body of llamish 
 Bean was placed at the bottom of the hollow square, 
 about two yards distant from the foot of the precipice, 
 which rises in that place as steep as a stone wall to the 
 height of three or four hundred feet. Thither the pris- 
 oner was also led, the clergyman still continuing by his 
 side, pouring forth exhortations of courage and consola- 
 tion, to which the youth appeared to listen with respect- 
 ful devotion. With slow, and, it seemed, almost unwilling 
 steps, the firing party entered the square, and were drawn 
 up facing the prisoner, about ten yards distant. The 
 clergyman was now about to retire — “ Think, my son,” 
 he said, “ on what I have told you, and let your hope be 
 rested on the anchor which 1 have given. You will then 
 exchange a short and miserable existence here, for a life 
 in which you will experience neither sorrow nor pain. — 
 Is there aught else which you can intrust to me to exe- 
 cute for you 
 
 The youth looked at his sleeve buttons. They were 
 of gold, booty perhaps which his father had taken from 
 some English officer during the civil wars. The clergy- 
 man disengaged them from his sleeves. 
 
 u My mother !” he said with some effort, “ give them 
 to my poor mother ! — See her, good father, and teach her 
 what she should think of all this. Tell her Hamish Bean 
 is more glad to die than ever he was to rest after the long- 
 est day’s hunting. Farewell, sir — farewell !” 
 
 The good man could scarce retire from the fatal spot. 
 An officer afforded him the support of his arm. At his 
 last look towards Hamish, lie beheld him alive and kneel- 
 ing on the coffin ; the few that were around him had all 
 withdrawn. The fatal word was given, the rock rung 
 sharp to the sound of the discharge, and Hamish, falling 
 forward with a groan, died, it may be supposed, without 
 almost a sense of the passing agony. 
 
156 
 
 CHRONICLES OF 
 
 Ten or twelve of his own company then came forward, 
 and laid with solemn reverence the remains of their com- 
 rade in the coffin, while the Dead March was again struck 
 up, and the several companies, marching in single files, pass- 
 ed the coffin one by one, in order that all might receive 
 from the awful spectacle the warning which it was peculiar- 
 ly intended to afford. The regiment was then marched off 
 the ground, and reascended the ancient cliff, their music, 
 as usual on such occasions, striking lively strains, as if 
 sorrow, or even deep thought, should as short a while as 
 possible be the tenant of the soldier’s bosom. 
 
 At the same time the small party, which we before 
 mentioned, bore the bier of the ill-fated Hamish to his 
 humble grave, in a corner of the church-yard of Dunbar- 
 ton, usually assigned to criminals. Here, among the dust 
 of the guilty, lies a youth, whose name, had he survived 
 the ruin of the fatal events by which he was hurried into 
 crime, might have adorned the annals of the brave. 
 
 The minister of Glenorquhy left Dunbarton immedi- 
 ately after he had witnessed the last scene of this melan- 
 choly catastrophe. His reason acquiesced in the justice 
 of the sentence, which required blood for blood, and he 
 acknowledged that the vindictive character of his country- 
 men required to be powerfully restrained by the strong 
 curb of social law. But still he mourned over the indi- 
 vidual victim. Who may arraign the bolt of Heaven 
 when it bursts among the sons of the forest ; yet who can 
 refrain from mourning, when it selects for the object of 
 its blighting aim the fair stem of a young oak, that prom- 
 ised to be the pride of the dell in which it flourished ? 
 Musing on these melancholy events, noon found him en- 
 gaged in the mountain passes, by which he was to return 
 to his still distant home. 
 
 Confident in his knowledge of the country, the clergy- 
 man had left the main road, to seek one of those shorter 
 paths, which are only used by pedestrians, or by men 
 like the minister, mounted on the small, but sure-footed, 
 hardy, and sagacious horses of the country. The place 
 which he now traversed, was in itself gloomy and deso- 
 
THE CANONGATE. 
 
 157 
 
 late, and tradition had added to it the terror of superstition, 
 by affirming it was haunted by an evil spirit, termed 
 Cloght-dearg , that is, Red mantle, who at all times, but 
 especially at noon and at midnight, traversed the glen, in 
 enmity both to man and the inferior creation, did such 
 evil as her power was permitted to extend to, and afflicted 
 with ghastly terrors those whom she had not license oth- 
 erwise to hurt. 
 
 The minister of Glenorquhy had set his face in oppo- 
 sition to many of these superstitions, which he justly 
 thought were derived from the dark ages of Popery, per- 
 haps even from those of Paganism, and unfit to be enter- 
 tained or believed by the Christians of an enlightened age. 
 Some of his more attached parishioners considered him 
 as too rash in opposing the ancient faith of their fathers ; 
 and though they honoured the moral intrepidity of their 
 pastor, they could not avoid entertaining and expressing 
 fears, that he would one day fall a victim to his temerity, 
 and be torn to pieces in the glen of the Cloght-dearg, or 
 some of those other haunted wilds, which he appeared 
 rather to have a pride and pleasure in traversing alone, 
 on the days and hours when the wicked spirits were sup- 
 posed to have especial power over man and beast. 
 
 These legends came across the mind of the clergyman ; 
 and, solitary as he was, a melancholy smile shaded his 
 cheek, as he thought of the inconsistency of human nature, 
 and reflected how many brave men, w 7 hom the yell of the 
 pibroch would have sent headlong against fixed bayonets, 
 as the wild bull rushes on his enemy, might have yet 
 feared to encounter those visionary terrors, which he him- 
 self, a man of peace, and in ordinary perils no way re- 
 markable for the firmness of his nerves, was now risking 
 without hesitation. 
 
 As he looked around the scene of desolation, he could 
 not but acknowledge, in his own mind, that it was not ill 
 chosen for the haunt of those spirits, which are said to 
 delight in solitude and desolation. The glen was so steep 
 and narrow, that there was but just room for the meridian 
 14 VOL. I. 
 
158 
 
 CHRONICLES OF 
 
 sun to dart a few scattered rays upon the gloomy and pre- 
 carious stream which stole through its recesses, for the 
 most part in silence, but occasionally murmuring sullenly 
 against the rocks and large stones, which seemed deter- 
 mined to bar its further progress. In winter, or in the 
 rainy season, this small stream was a foaming torrent of 
 the most formidable magnitude, and it was at such periods 
 that it had torn open and laid bare the broad-faced and 
 huge fragments of rock, which, at the season of which we 
 speak, hid its course iron) the eye, and seemed disposed 
 totally to interrupt its course. “ Undoubtedly,” thought 
 the clergyman, “ this mountain rivulet, suddenly swelled 
 by a water-spout, or thunder-storm, has often been the 
 cause of those accidents, which, happening in the glen 
 called by her name, have been ascribed to the agency of 
 the Cioght-dearg. 
 
 Just as this idea crossed his mind, he heard a female 
 voice exclaim, in a wild and thrilling accent, “ Michael 
 Tyrie — Michael Tyrie !” He looked round in astonish- 
 ment, and not without some fear. It seemed for an in- 
 stant, as if the Evil Being, whose existence he had dis- 
 owned, was about to appear for the punishment of his 
 incredulity. This alarm did not hold him more than an 
 instant, nor did it prevent his replying in a firm voice, 
 u Who calls — -and where are you ?” 
 
 “ One who journeys in wretchedness, between life 
 and death,” answered the voice ; and the speaker, a tall 
 female, appeared from among the fragments of rocks 
 which had concealed her from view. 
 
 As she approached more closely, her mantle of bright 
 tartan, in which the red colour much predominated, her 
 stature, the long stride with which she advanced, and the 
 writhen features and wild eyes which were visible from 
 under her curch, would have made her no inadequate 
 representative of the spirit which gave name to the valley. 
 But Mr. Tyrie instantly knew her as the woman of the 
 Tree ; the widow of MacTavish Mhor, the now childless 
 mother of Harnish Bean. I am not sure whether the 
 minister would not have endured the visitation of the 
 
TIIE CANONGATE. 
 
 159 
 
 Cloght-dearg herself, rather than the shock of Elspat’s 
 presence, considering her. crime and her misery. He 
 drew up his horse instinctively, and stood endeavouring 
 to collect his ideas, while a few paces brought her up to 
 his horse’s head. 
 
 “ Michael Tyrie,” said she, “ the foolish women of 
 the Clachan* hold thee as a God — be one to me, and say 
 that my son lives. Say this, and 1 too will be of thy wor- 
 ship — 1 will bend my knees on the seventh day in thy 
 house of worship, and thy God shall be my God. 1 ’ 
 
 “ Unhappy woman,” replied the clergyman, “ man 
 forms not pactions with his Maker as with a creature of 
 clay like himself. Thickest thou to chaffer with Him, who 
 formed the earth, and spread out the heavens, or that thou 
 canst offer aught of homage or devotion that can be worth 
 acceptance in his eyes He hath asked obedience, not 
 sacrifice ; patience under the trials with which he afflicts 
 us, instead of vain bribes, such as man offers to his change- 
 ful brother of clay, that he may be moved from his pur- 
 pose.” 
 
 “ Be silent, priest !” answered the desperate woman ; 
 “ speak not to me the words of thy white book. Elspat’s 
 kindred were of those who crossed themselves and knelt 
 when the sacring bell was rung ; and she knows that atone- 
 ment can be made on the altar for deeds done in the field. 
 Elspat had once flocks and herds, goats upon the cliffs, 
 and cattle in the strath. She wore gold around her neck 
 and on her hair — thick twists as those worn by the heroes 
 of old. All these would she have resigned to the priest 
 — all these ; and if he wished for the ornaments of a 
 gentle lady, or the sporran of a high chief, though they 
 had been great as MacallanMore himself, MacTavish 
 Mhor would have procured them if Elspat had promised 
 them. Elspat is now poor, and has nothing to give. But 
 the Black Abbot of Inchaffray would have bidden her 
 scourge her shoulders, and macerate her feet by pilgrim- 
 age, and he would have granted his pardon to her when 
 
 i. e. The village, literally the stones. 
 
1G0 
 
 CHRONICLES OF 
 
 he saw that her blood had flowed, and that her flesh had 
 been torn. These were the priests who had indeed power 
 even with the most powerful — they threatened the great 
 men of the earth with the word of their mouth, the sen- 
 tence of their book, the blaze of their torch, and sound 
 of their sacring bell. The mighty bent to their will, and 
 unloosed af the word of the priests those whom they had 
 bound in their wrath, and set at liberty, unharmed, him 
 whom they had sentenced to death, and for whose blood 
 they had thirsted. These were a powerful race, and 
 might well ask the poor to kneel, since their power could 
 humble the proud. But you ! — against whom are ye 
 strong, but against women who have been guilty of folly, 
 and men who never wore sword 9 The priests of old 
 were like the winter torrent which fills this hollow valley, 
 and rolls these massive rocks against each other as easily 
 as the boy plays with the ball which he casts before him 
 — But you ! you do but resemble the summer-stricken 
 stream, which is turned aside by the rushes, and stemmed 
 by a bush of sedges — wo worth you, for there is no help 
 in you !” 
 
 The clergyman was at no loss to conceive that Elspat 
 had lost the Roman Catholic faith without gaining any 
 other, and that she still retained a vague and confused 
 idea of the composition with the priesthood, by confession, 
 alms, and penance, and of their extensive power, which, 
 according to her notion, was adequate, if duly propitiated, 
 even to effecting her sop’s safety. Compassionating her 
 situation, and allowing for her errors and ignorance, he 
 answered her with mildness. 
 
 “ Alas, unhappy woman ! Would to God I could con- 
 vince thee as easily where thou oughtest to seek, and art 
 sure lo find consolation, as I can assure you with a single 
 word, that were Rome and all her priesthood once more 
 in the plenitude of their power, they could not, for lar- 
 gesse or penance, afford to thy misery an atom of aid or 
 comfort. — Elspat MacTavish, I grieve to tell you the 
 news.” 
 
THE CAXONGATE . 
 
 161 
 
 “ I know them without thy speech,” said the unhappy 
 woman — “ My son is doomed to die.” 
 
 “ Elspat,” resumed the clergyman, “ he was doomed, 
 and the sentence has been executed.”* The hapless moth- 
 er threw her eyes up to heaven, and uttered a shriek so 
 unlike the voice of a human being, that the eagle which 
 soared in middle air answered it as she would have done 
 the call of her mate. 
 
 “ It is impossible !” she exclaimed, “ it is impossible ! 
 Men do not condemn and kill on the same day ! Thou 
 art deceiving me. The people call thee holy — hast thou 
 the heart to tell a mother she has murdered her only 
 child <?” 
 
 “ God knows,” said the priest, the tears falling fast 
 from his eyes, “ that were it in my power, I would gladly 
 tell better tidings — But these which I bear are as certain 
 as they are fatal — My own ears heard the death-shot, my 
 own eyes beheld thy son’s death — thy son’s funeral. — - 
 My tongue bears witness to what my ears heard and my 
 eyes saw.” 
 
 The wretched female clasped her hands close together, 
 and held them up towards heaven like a sibyl announcing 
 war and desolation, while, in impotent yet frightful rage, 
 she poured forth a tide of the deepest imprecations. — 
 “ Base Saxon churl !” she exclaimed, “ vile hypocritical 
 juggler ! May the eyes that looked tamely on the death of 
 my fair-haired boy be melted in their sockets with cease- 
 less tears, shed for those that are nearest and most dear 
 to thee ! May the ears that heard his death-knell be dead 
 hereafter to all other sounds save the screech of the ra- 
 ven, and the hissing of the adder ! May the tongue that 
 tells me of his death and of my own crime, be withered 
 in thy mouth — or better, when thou wouldst pray with thy 
 people, may the Evil One guide it, and give voice to 
 blasphemies instead of blessings, until men shall fly in 
 terror from thy presence, and the thunder of heaven be 
 launched against thy bead, and stop for ever thy cursing 
 and accursed voice ! Begone ! with this malison. : — Elspat 
 14 * VOL, i. 
 
162 
 
 CHRONICLES OF 
 
 will never, never again bestow so many words upon living 
 man.” 
 
 She kept her word — from that day the world was to 
 her a wilderness, in which she remained without thought, 
 care, or interest, absorbed in her own grief, indifferent to 
 everything else. 
 
 With her mode of life, or rather of existence, the read- 
 er is already as far acquainted as 1 have the power of 
 making him. Of her death, 1 can tell him nothing. It 
 is supposed to have happened several years after she had 
 attracted the attention of my excellent friend Mrs. Be- 
 thune Baliol. Her benevolence, which was never satis- 
 fied with dropping a sentimental tear, when there was 
 room for the operation of effective charity, induced her 
 to make various attempts to alleviate the condition of this 
 most wretched woman. But all her exertions could only 
 render Elspat’s means of subsistence less precarious, a 
 circumstance which, though generally interesting even to 
 the most wretched outcasts, seemed to her a matter of 
 total indifference. Every attempt to place any person in 
 her hut to take charge of her miscarried, through the ex- 
 treme resentment with which she regarded all intrusion 
 on her solitude, or by the timidity of those who had been 
 pitched upon to be inmates with the terrible woman of 
 the Tree. At length, when Elspat became totally unable 
 (in appearance at least) to turn herself on the wretched 
 settle which served her for a couch, the humanity of Mr. 
 Tyrie’s successor sent two women to attend upon the last 
 moments of the solitary, which could not, it was judged, 
 be far distant, and to avert the shocking possibility that 
 she might perish for want of assistance or food, before 
 she sunk under the effects of extreme age, or mortal 
 malady. 
 
 It was on a November evening, that the two women 
 appointed for this melancholy purpose, arrived at the mis- 
 erable cottage which we have already described. Its 
 wretched inmate lay stretched upon the bed, and seemed 
 almost already a lifeless corpse, save for the wandering 
 of the fierce dark eyes, which rolled in their sockets in a 
 
THE CANONGATE. 
 
 163 
 
 manner terrible to look upon, and seemed to watch with 
 surprise and indignation the motions of the strangers, as 
 persons whose presence was alike unexpected and unwel- 
 come. They were frightened at her looks ; but, assured 
 in each other’s company, they kindled a fire, lighted a 
 candle, prepared food, and made other arrangements for 
 the discharge of the duty assigned them. 
 
 The assistants agreed they should watch the bedside 
 of the sick person by turns ; but, about midnight, over- 
 come by fatigue, (for they had walked far that morning,) 
 both of them fell fast asleep. When they awoke, which 
 was not till after the interval of some hours, the hut was 
 empty, and the patient gone. They rose in terror, and 
 went to the door of the cottage, which was latched as it 
 had been at night. They looked out into the darkness, 
 and called upon their charge by her name. The night- 
 raven screamed from the old oak tree, the fox howled on 
 the hill, the hoarse waterfall replied with its echoes, but 
 there was no human answer. The terrified women did 
 not dare to make further search till morning should ap- 
 pear ; for the sudden disappearance of a creature so frail 
 as Elspat, together with the wild tenor of her history, in- 
 timidated them from stirring from the hut. They remain- 
 ed, therefore, in dreadful terror, sometimes thinking they 
 heard her voice without, and at other times, that sounds 
 of a different description were mingled with the mournful 
 sigh of the night-breeze, or the dash of the cascade. 
 Sometimes, too, the latch rattled, as if some frail and im- 
 potent hand were in vain attempting to lift it, and ever and 
 anon they expected the entrance of their terrible patient, 
 animated by supernatural strength, and in the company, 
 perhaps, of some being more dreadful than herself. Morn- 
 ing came at length. They sought brake, rock, and thicket 
 in vain. Two hours after daylight, the minister himself 
 appeared, and on the report of the watchers, caused the 
 country to be alarmed, and a general and exact search to 
 be made through the whole neighbourhood of the cottage, 
 and the oak tree. But it was all in vain. Elspat Mac- 
 Tavisli was never found, whether dead or alive ; nor 
 
164 
 
 CHRONICLES OF 
 
 could there ever be traced the slightest circumstance to 
 indicate her fate. 
 
 The neighbourhood was divided concerning the cause 
 of her disappearance. The credulous thought that the 
 evil spirit, under whose influence she seemed to have act- 
 ed, had carried her away in the body ; and there are 
 many who are still unwilling, at untimely hours, to pass 
 the oak tree, beneath which, as they allege, she may still 
 be seen seated according to her wont. Others less su- 
 perstitious supposed, that had it been possible to search 
 the gulf of the Corri Dhu, the profound deeps of the lake, 
 or the whelming eddies of the river, the remains of El- 
 spat MacTavish might have been discovered ; as nothing 
 was more natural, considering her state of body and mind, 
 than that she should have fallen in by accident, or precip- 
 itated herself intentionally into one or other cf those places 
 of sure destruction. The clergyman entertained an opin- 
 ion of his own. He thought, that impatient of the watch 
 which was placed over her, this unhappy woman’s instinct 
 had taught her, as it directs various domestic animals, to 
 withdraw herself from the sight of her own race, that the 
 death-struggle might take place in some secret den, where, 
 in all probability, her mortal relics would never meet the 
 eyes of mortals. This species of instinctive feeling seem- 
 ed to him of a tenor with the whole course of her unhappy 
 life, and most likely to influence her, when it drew to a 
 conclusion. 
 
THE CANONGATK. 
 
 165 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 Together both on the high lawns appeared. 
 
 Under the opening eyelids of the morn 
 
 They drove afield. 
 
 Elegy on Lycidas. 
 
 I have sometimes wondered why all the favourite oc- 
 cupations and pastimes of mankind go to the disturbance 
 of that happy state of tranquillity, that Otium , as Horace 
 terms it, which he says is the object of all men’s prayers, 
 whether preferred from sea or land ; and that the undis- 
 turbed repose, of which we are so tenacious, when duty 
 or necessity compels us to abandon it, is precisely what 
 we long to exchange for a state of excitation, as soon as we 
 may prolong it at our own pleasure. Briefly, you have 
 only to say to a man, “ remain at rest,” and you instantly 
 inspire the love of labour. The sportsman toils like his 
 gamekeeper, the master of the pack takes as severe ex- 
 ercise as his whipper-in, the statesman or politician drudges 
 more than the professional lawyer ; and, to come to my 
 own case, the volunteer author subjects himself to the 
 risk of painful criticism, and the assured certainty of 
 mental and manual labour, just as completely as his needy 
 brother, whose necessities compel him to assume the pen. 
 
 These reflections have been suggested by an annun- 
 ciation on the part of Janet, “ that the little Gillie-white- 
 foot was come from the printing office.” 
 
 “ Gillie-blackfoot you should call him, Janet, “ was 
 my response, “ for he is neither more nor less than an 
 imp of the devil, come to torment me for copy , for so 
 they call a supply of manuscript for the press.” 
 
 “ Now', Cot forgie your honour,” said Janet; “ for it 
 is no like your ainsell to give such names to a faitherless 
 bairn.” 
 
166 
 
 CHRONICLES OF 
 
 “ I have got nothing else to give him, Janet — he must 
 wait a little. ” 
 
 “ Then 1 have got some breakfast to give the bit gil- 
 lie,” said Janet; “ and he can wait by the fireside in the 
 kitchen, till your honour’s ready ; and cooa enough for 
 the like of him, if he was to wait your honour’s pleasure 
 all day.” ^ 
 
 “ But, Janet,” said I to my little active superintendent, 
 on her return to the parlour, after having made her hos- 
 pitable arrangement, “ I begin to find this writing our 
 Chronicles is rather more tiresome than I expected, for 
 here comes this little fellow to ask for manuscript — that 
 is, for something to print — and 1 have got none to give 
 him.” 
 
 “ Your honour can be at nae loss ; 1 have seen you 
 write fast and fast enough ; and for subjects, you have 
 the whole Highlands to write about, and I am sure you 
 know a hundred tales better than that about Hamish 
 MacTavish, for it was but about a young cateran and an 
 auld carline, when all’s done ; and if they had burned 
 the rudas quean for a witch, I am thinking, may be, they 
 would not have tyned their coals — and her to gar her 
 neer-do-weel son shoot a gentleman ! I am third cousin 
 to the Camerons mysell — my blood warms to them — And 
 if you want to write about deserters, I am sure there were 
 deserters enough on the top of Arthur’s Seat, when the 
 Mac Raas broke out, and on that woful day beside Leith 
 Pier — Ohonari !— ” 
 
 Here Janet began to weep, and to wipe her eyes with 
 her apron. For my part, the idea I wanted was supplied, 
 but 1 hesitated to make use of it. Topics, like times, are 
 apt to become common by frequent use. It is only an 
 ass like Justice Shallow, who would pitch upon the over- 
 scutched tunes, which the carmen whistled, and try to 
 pass them off as his fancies and his good-nights . Now, 
 
 the Highlanders, though formerly a rich mine for original 
 matter, is, as my friend Mrs. Bethune Baliol warned me, 
 in some degree worn out by the incessant labour of mod- 
 ern romancers and novelists, who, finding in these remote 
 
THE CANONGATE. 
 
 167 
 
 regions primitive habits and manners, have vainly imag- 
 ined that the public can never tire of them ; and so kilt- 
 ed Highlanders are to be found as frequently, and nearly 
 of as genuine descent, on the shelves of a circulating li- 
 brary, as at a Caledonian ball. Much might have been 
 made at an earlier time out of the history of a Highland 
 regiment, and the singular change of ideas which must 
 have taken place in the minds of those who composed it, 
 when exchanging their native hills for the battle fields 
 of the Continent, and their simple, and sometimes indo- 
 lent domestic habits, for the regular exertions demanded 
 by modern discipline. But the market is forestalled. 
 There is Mrs. Grant of Laggan, has drawn the manners, 
 customs, and superstitions of the mountains in their natu- 
 ral unsophisticated state, and my friend, General Stewart 
 of Garth, in giving the real history of the Highland regi- 
 ments, has rendered any attempt to fill up the sketch with 
 fancy-colouring extremely rash and precarious. Yet I, 
 too, have still a lingering fancy to add a stone to the 
 cairn-; and without calling in imagination to aid the im- 
 pressions of juvenile recollection, 1 may just attempt to 
 embody one or two scenes illustrative of the Highland 
 character, and which belong peculiarly to the Chronicles 
 of the Canongate, to the greyheaded eld of whom they 
 are as familiar as to Chrystal Croftangry. Yeti will not 
 go back to the days of clanship and claymores. Have 
 at you, gentle reader, with a tale of Two Drovers. An 
 oyster may be crossed in love, says the gentle Tilburina 
 — and a drover may be touched in point of honour, says 
 the Chronicler of the Canongate. 
 
168 
 
 CHRONICLES OF 
 
 ffl&e ®too Brobrrs- 
 
 It was the clay after the Donne Fair when my story 
 commences. It had been a brisk market, several dealers 
 had attended from the northern and midland counties in 
 England, and the English money had flown so merrily 
 about as to gladden the hearts of the Highland farmers. 
 Many large droves were about to set off for England, 
 under the protection of their owners, or of the topsmen 
 whom they employed in the tedious, laborious, and re- 
 sponsible office of driving the cattle for many hundred 
 miles, from the market where they had been purchased to 
 the fields or farm-yards where they were to be fattened 
 for the shambles. 
 
 The Highlanders in particular are masters of this diffi- 
 cult trade of driving, which seems to suit them as w’ell as 
 the trade of war. It affords exercise for all their habits 
 of patient endurance and active exertion. They are re- 
 quired to know perfectly the drove-roads, which lie over 
 the wildest tracts of the country, and to avoid as much 
 as possible the highways, which distress the feet of the 
 bullocks, and the turnpikes, which annoy the spirit of the 
 drover ; whereas on the broad green or grey track, which 
 leads across the pathless moor, the herd not only move 
 at ease and without taxation, but, if they mind their busi- 
 ness, may pick up a mouthful of food by the way. At 
 night, the drovers usually sleep along with their cattle, 
 let the weather be what it will ; and many of these hardy 
 men do not once rest under a roof during a journey on 
 foot from Lochaberto Lincolnshire. They are paid very 
 highly, for the trust reposed is of the last importance, as 
 it depends on their prudence, vigilance, and honesty, 
 whether the cattle reach the final market in good order, 
 
THE CANONGATE. 
 
 169 
 
 and afford a profit to the grazier. But as they maintain 
 themselves at their own expense, they are especially 
 economical in that particular. At the period we speak 
 of, a Highland drover was victualled lor his long and 
 toilsome journey with a few handfuls of oatmeal and two 
 or three onions, renewed from time to time, and a ram’s 
 horn filled with whisky, which he used regularly, but 
 sparingly, every night and morning. His dirk, or s/cene - 
 dhu , (i. e. black knife,) so worn as to be concealed be- 
 neath the arm, or by the folds of the plaid, was his only 
 weapon, excepting the cudgel with which he directed the 
 movements of the cattle. A Highlander was never so 
 happy as on these occasions. There was a variety in the 
 whole journey, which exercised the Celt’s natural curi- 
 osity and love of motion ; there were the constant change 
 of pi ace and scene, the petty adventures incidental to 
 the traffic, and the intercourse with the various farmers, 
 graziers, and traders, intermingled w ith occasional merry- 
 makings, not the less acceptable to Donald that they were 
 void of expense ; — and there was the consciousness of 
 superior skill ; for the Highlander, a child amongst flocks, 
 is a prince amongst herds, and his natural habits induce 
 him to disdain the shepherd’s slothful life, so that he feels 
 himself nowhere more at home than when following a 
 gallant drove of his country cattle in the character of 
 their guardian. 
 
 Of the number who left Donne in the morning, and 
 with the purpose we have described, not a Glunamie of 
 them all cocked his bonnet more briskly, or gartered his 
 tartan hose under knee over a pair of more promising 
 spiogs , (legs,) than did Robin Oig M‘Combich, called 
 familiarly Robin Oig, that is Young, or the Lesser, Robin. 
 Though small of stature, as the epithet Oig implies, and 
 not very strongly limbed, he was as light and alert as one 
 of the deer of his mountains. He had an elasticity of 
 step, which, in the course of a long march, made many 
 a stout fellow envy him ; and the manner in which he 
 busked his plaid and adjusted his bonnet, argued a con- 
 15 VOL. S. 
 
170 
 
 CHRONICLES OF 
 
 sciousness that so smart a John Highlandman as himself 
 would not pass unnoticed among the Lowland lasses. 
 The ruddy cheek, red lips, and white teeth, set off a 
 countenance which had gained by exposure to the weath- 
 er a healthful and hardy rather than a rugged' hue. If 
 Robin Oig did not laugh, or even smile frequently, as 
 indeed is not the practice among his countrymen, his 
 bright eyes usually gleamed from under his bonnet with 
 an expression of cheerfulness ready to be turned into 
 mirth. 
 
 The departure of Robin Oig was an incident in the 
 little town, in and near which he had many friends male 
 and female. He was a topping person in his way, trans- 
 acted considerable business on his own behalf, and was 
 intrusted by the best farmers in the Highlands, in prefer- 
 ence to any other drover in that district. He might have 
 increased his business to any extent had he condescended 
 to manage it by deputy ; but except a lad or two, sister’s 
 sons of his own, Robin rejected the idea of assistance, 
 conscious, perhaps, how much his reputation depended 
 upon his attending in person to the practical discharge of 
 his duty in every instance. He remained, therefore, con- 
 tented with the highest premium given to persons of his 
 description, and comforted himself with the hopes that a 
 few journeys to England might enable him to conduct 
 business on his own account, in a manner becoming his 
 birth. For Robin Oig’s father, Lachlan M‘Combich, 
 (or, son of my friend , his actual clan-surname being 
 M‘Gregor,) had been so called by the celebrated Rob 
 Roy, because of the particular friendship which had sub- 
 sisted between the grandsire of Robin and that renowned 
 cateran. Some people even say, that Robin Oig derived 
 his Christian name from a man, as renowned in the wilds 
 of Lochlomond, as ever was his namesake Robin Hood, 
 in the precincts of merry Sherwood. “ Of such ances- 
 try,” as James Boswell says, “ who would not be proud ?” 
 Robin Oig was proud accordingly; but his frequent visits 
 to England and to the Lowlands had given him tact 
 enough to know that pretensions, which still gave him a 
 
TIIE CANONGATK. 
 
 171 
 
 little right to distinction in his own lonely glen, might be 
 both obnoxious and ridiculous if preferred elsewhere. 
 The pride of birth, therefore, was like the miser’s treas- 
 ure, the secret subject of his contemplation, but rtever 
 exhibited to strangers as a subject of boasting. 
 
 Many were the words of. gratulation and good-luck 
 which were bestowed on Robin Oig. The judges com- 
 mended his drove, especially the best of them, which 
 were Robin’s own property. Some thrust out their snuff- 
 mulls for the parting pinch — others tendered the dock - 
 an-dorrach , or parting cup. All cried — “ Good-luck 
 travel out with you and come home with you. — Give yon 
 luck in the Saxon market — brave notes in the leabhar-dfiv , 
 (black pocket-book,) and plenty of English gold in the 
 sporran (pouch of goatskin.”) 
 
 The bonny lasses made their adieus more modestly, 
 and more than one, it was said, would have given her best 
 brooch, to be certain that it was upon her that his eye last 
 rested as he turned towards his road. 
 
 Robin Oig had just given the preliminary “ Hoo-hoo /” 
 to urge forward the loiterers of the drove, when there was 
 a cry behind him. 
 
 “ Stay, Robin — bide a blink. Here is Janet of Tom- 
 ahourich — auld Janet, your father’s sister.” 
 
 “ Plague on her, for an auld Highland witch and spae- 
 wife,” said a farmer from the Carse of Stirling ; “ she’ll 
 cast some of her cantrips on the cattle.” 
 
 “ She canna do that,” said another sapient of the same 
 profession — “ Robin Oig is no the lad to leave any of 
 them, without tying Saint Mungo’s knot on their tails, and 
 that will put to her speed the best witch that ever flew 
 over Dimayet upon a broomstick.” 
 
 It may not be indifferent to the reader to know, that 
 the Highland cattle are peculiarly liable to be taken , or 
 infected, by spells and witchcraft, which judicious people 
 guard against by knitting knots of peculiar complexity on 
 the tuft of hair which terminates the animal’s tail. 
 
 But the old woman who was the object of the farmer’s 
 suspicion seemed only busied about the drover, without 
 
172 
 
 CHRONICLES OF 
 
 paying any attention to the flock. Robin, on the con- 
 trary, appeared rather impatient of her presence. 
 
 “ What auld-world fancy,” he said, “ has brought you 
 so early from the ingle-side this morning, Muhme 9 1 am 
 sure 1 bid you good even, and had your God-speed, last 
 night.” 
 
 “ And left me more siller than the useless old woman 
 will use till you come back again, bird of my bosom,” 
 said the sibyl. “ But it is little I would care for the food 
 that nourishes tne, or the fire that warms me, or for God’s 
 blessed sun itself, if aught but weal should happen to the 
 grandson of my father. So let me walk the deasil round 
 you, that you may go safe out into the far foreign land, 
 and come safe home.” 
 
 Robin Oig stopped, half embarrassed, half laughing, 
 and signing to those around that he only complied with 
 the old woman to soothe her humour. In the meantime, 
 she traced around him, with wavering steps, the propitia- 
 tion, which some have thought has been derived from the 
 Druidical mythology. It consists, as is well known, in 
 the person who makes the deasil , walking three times 
 round the person who is the object of the ceremony, 
 taking care to move according to the course of the sun. 
 At once, however, she stopped short, and exclaimed, in 
 a voice of alarm and horror, “ Grandson of my father, 
 there is blood on your hand.” 
 
 “ Hush, for God’s sake, aunt,” said Robin Oig ; “ you 
 will bring more trouble on yourself with this Taishataragh 
 (second sight) than you will be able to get out of for many 
 a day.” 
 
 The old woman only repeated, with a ghastly look, 
 “ There is blood on your hand, and it is English blood. 
 The blood of the Gael is richer and redder. Let us see 
 — Let us ” 
 
 Ere Robin Oig could prevent her, which, indeed, could 
 only have been by positive violence, so hasty and peremp- 
 tory were her proceedings, she had drawn from his side 
 the dirk which lodged in the folds of his plaid, and held 
 it up, exclaiming, although the weapon gleamed clear and 
 
THE CANONCATE. 
 
 173 
 
 bright in the sun, “ Blood, blood — Saxon blood again. 
 Robin Oig M‘Combich, go not this day to England !” 
 
 “ Prutt, trutt,” answered Robin Oig, “ that will never 
 do neither — it would be next thing to running the country. 
 For shame, Muhme — give me the dirk. You cannot tell 
 by the colour the difference betwixt the blood of a black 
 bullock and a white one, and you speak of knowing Saxon 
 from Gaelic blood. All men have their blood from Adam, 
 Muhme. Give me my skene-dhu, and let me go on my 
 road. I should have been half way to Stirling brig by 
 this time — Give me my dirk, and let me go.” 
 
 “ Never will I give it to you,” said the old woman — 
 “ Never will 1 quit my hold on your plaid, unless you 
 promise me not to wear that unhappy weapon.” 
 
 The women around him urged him also, saying few of 
 his aunt’s words fell to the ground ; and as the Lowland 
 farmers continued to look moodily on the scene, Robin 
 Oig determined to close it at any sacrifice. 
 
 “ Well, then,” said the young drover, giving the scab- 
 bard of the weapon to Hugh Morrison, “ you Lovvlanders 
 care nothing for these freats. Keep my dirk for me. I 
 cannot give it you, because it was my father’s ; but your 
 drove follows ours, and I am content it should be in your 
 keeping, not in mine. — Will this do, Muhme V' 
 
 “ It must,” said the old woman — “ that is, if the 
 Lowlander is mad enough to carry the knife.” 
 
 The strong westlandman laughed aloud, 
 
 “ Good wife,” said he, “ I am Hugh Morrison from 
 Glenae, come of the Manly Morrisons of auld lang syne, 
 that never took short weapon against a man in their lives. 
 And neither needed they : They had their broadswords, 
 and 1 have this bit supple (showing a formidable cudgel) 
 — for dirking ower the board, I leave that to John High- 
 landman, — Ye needna snort, none of you Highlanders, 
 and you in especial, Robin. I’ll keep the bit knife, if 
 you are feared for the auld spaewife’s tale, and give it 
 back to you whenever you want it.” 
 
 15* VOL. i. 
 
174 
 
 CHRONICLES OF 
 
 Robin was not particularly pleased with some part of 
 Hugh Morrison’s speech ; but he had learned in his 
 travels more patience than belonged to his Highland con- 
 stitution originally, and he accepted the service of the 
 descendant of the Manly Morrisons, without finding fault 
 with the rather depreciating manner in which it was 
 offered. 
 
 “ If he had not had his morning in his head, and been 
 but a Dumfries-shire hog into the boot, he would have 
 spoken more like a gentleman. But you cannot have 
 more of a sow but a grumph. It’s shame my father’s 
 knife should ever slash a haggis for the like of him.” 
 
 Thus saying, (but saying it in Gaelic,) Robin drove on 
 his cattle, and waved farewell to all behind him. He was 
 in the greater haste, because he expected to join at Fal- 
 kirk a comrade and brother in profession, with whom he 
 proposed to travel in company. 
 
 Robin Oig’s chosen friend was a young Englishman, 
 Harry Wakefield by name, well known at every northern 
 market, and in his way as much famed and honoured as 
 our Highland driver of bullocks. He was nearly six feet 
 high, gallantly formed to keep the rounds at Smithfield, 
 Or maintain the ring at a WTestling match ; and although 
 he might have been overmatched, perhaps, among the 
 regular professors of the Fancy, yet, as a chance custom- 
 er, he was able to give a bellyful to any amateur of the 
 pugilistic art. Doncaster races saw him in h-is glory, 
 betting his guinea, and generally successfully ; nor was 
 there a main fought in Yorkshire, the feeders being per- 
 sons of celebrity, at which he was not to be seen, if busi- 
 ness permitted. But though a sprac/c lad, and fond of 
 pleasure and its haunts, Harry Wakefield was steady, and 
 not the cautious Robin Oig M‘Combich himself was more 
 attentive to the main chance. His holidays were holi- 
 days indeed ; but Ins days of work were dedicated to 
 steady and persevering labour. In countenance and tem- 
 per, Wakefield was the model of Old England’s merry 
 yeomen, whose clothyard shafts, in so many hundred bat- 
 tles, asserted her superiority over the nations, and whose 
 
THE CANONGATE. 
 
 175 
 
 good sabres, in our own time, are her cheapest and most 
 assured defence. His mirth was readily excited ; for, 
 strong in limb and constitution, and fortunate in circum- 
 stances, he was disposed to be pleased with everything 
 about him ; and such difficulties as he might occasionally 
 encounter, were, to a man of his energy, rather matter of 
 amusement than serious annoyance. With all the merits 
 of a sanguine temper, our young English drover was not 
 without its defects. He was irascible, and sometimes to 
 the verge of being quarrelsome ; and perhaps not the less 
 inclined to bring his disputes to a pugilistic decision, be- 
 cause he found few antagonists able to stand up to him in 
 the boxing ring. 
 
 It is difficult to say how Henry Wakefield and Robin 
 Gig first became intimates ; but it is certain a close ac- 
 quaintance had taken place betwixt them, although they 
 had apparently few common topics of conversation or of 
 interest, so soon as their talk ceased to be of bullocks. 
 Robin Oig, indeed, spoke the English language rather 
 imperfectly upon any other topics but slots and kyloes, and 
 Harry Wakefield could never bring his broad Yorkshire 
 tongue to utter a single word of Gaelic. It was in vain 
 Robin spent a whole morning, during a walk over Minch- 
 Moor, in attempting to leach his companion to utter, with 
 true precision, the shibboleth Llhu , which is the Gaelic 
 for a calf. From Traquair to Murder-cairn, the hill rung 
 with the discordant attempts of the Saxon upon the un- 
 manageable monosyllable, and the heartfelt laugh which 
 followed every failure. They had, however, better modes 
 of awakening the echoes ; for Wakefield could sing many 
 a ditty to the praise of Moll, Susan, and Cicely, and Ro- 
 bin Oig had a particular gift at whistling interminable pi- 
 brochs through all their involutions, and what was more 
 agreeable to bis companion’s southern ear, knew many of 
 the northern airs, both lively and pathetic, to which Wake- 
 field learned to pipe a bass. Thus, though Robin could 
 hardly have comprehended his companion’s stories about 
 horse-racing, cock-fighting, or fox-hunting, and although 
 his own legends of clan-fights and creaghs , varied with 
 
176 
 
 CHRONICLES OF 
 
 \ 
 
 talk of Highland goblins and fairy folk, would have been 
 caviare to his companion, they contrived nevertheless to 
 find a degree of pleasure in each other’s company, which 
 had for three years back induced them to join company 
 and travel together, when the direction of their journey 
 permitted. Each, indeed, found his advantage in tills 
 companionship ; for where could the Englishman have 
 found a guide through the Western Highlands like Robin 
 Gig APCombich c ! and when they were on what Harry 
 called the right side of the Border, his patronage, which 
 was extensive, and his purse, which was heavy, were at 
 all times at the service of his Highland friend, and on 
 many occasions his liberality did him genuine yeoman’s 
 service. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 Were ever two such loving- friends ! — 
 
 How could they disagree ? 
 
 O thus it was, he loved him dear. 
 
 And thought how to requite him, 
 
 And having no friend left but he, 
 
 He did resolve to fight him. 
 
 Duke upon j Duke. 
 
 The pair of friends had traversed with their usual cor- 
 diality the grassy wilds of Liddesdale, and crossed the 
 opposite part of Cumberland, emphatically called The 
 Waste. In these solitary regions, the cattle under the 
 charge of our drovers subsisted themselves cheaply, by 
 picking their food as they went along the drove-road, or 
 sometimes by the tempting opportunity of a start and 
 owerloup , or invasion of the neighbouring pasture, where 
 an occasion presented itself. But now the scene chang- 
 ed before them ; they were descending towards a fertile 
 and enclosed country, where no such liberties could be 
 
THE CANONGATE. 
 
 177 
 
 taken with impunity, or without a previous arrangement 
 and bargain with the possessors of the ground. This was 
 more especially the case, as a great northern fair was upon 
 the eve of taking place, where both the Scotch and Eng- 
 lish drover expected to dispose of a part of their cattle, 
 which it was desirable to produce in the market, rested 
 and in good order. Fields were therefore difficult to be 
 obtained, and only upon high terms. This necessity oc- 
 casioned a temporary separation betwixt the two friends, 
 who w r ent to bargain, each as he could, for the separate 
 accommodation of his herd. Unhappily it chanced that 
 both of them, unknown to each other, thought of bargain- 
 ing for the ground they wanted on the property of a coun- 
 try gentleman of some fortune, whose estate lay in the 
 neighbourhood. The English drover applied to the bailiff 
 on the property, who was known to him. It chanced that 
 the Cumbrian Squire, who had entertained some suspi- 
 cions of his manager’s honesty, was taking occasional 
 measures to ascertain how far they were well founded, and 
 had desired that any inquiries about his enclosures, with 
 a view to occupy them for a temporary purpose, should be 
 referred to himself. As, however, Mr. Ireby had gone the 
 day before upon a journey of some miles’ distance to the 
 northward, the bailiff chose to consider the check upon his 
 full powers as for the time removed, and concluded that 
 he should best consult his master’s interest, and perhaps 
 his own, in making an agreement with Harry Wakefield. 
 Meanwhile, ignorant of what his comrade was doing, 
 Robin Oig, on his side, chanced to be overtaken by a 
 w r ell-looked smart little man upon a pony, most know- 
 ingly hogged and cropped, as was then the fashion, the 
 rider wearing tight leather breeches, and long-necked 
 bright spurs. This cavalier asked one or two pertinent 
 questions about markets and the price of stock. So 
 Donald, seeing him a well-judging civil gentleman, took 
 the freedom to ask him whether he could let him know 
 if there was any grass-land to be let in that neighbour- 
 hood, for the temporary accommodation of his drove. 
 He could not have put the question to more willing ears. 
 
178 
 
 CHRONICLES OF 
 
 The gentleman of the buckskins was the proprietor, with 
 whose bailiff Harry Wakefield had dealt, or was in the 
 act of dealing. 
 
 “ Thou art in good luck, my canny Scot,” said Mr. 
 Ireby, “ to have spoken to me, for I see thy cattle have 
 done their day’s work, and I have at my disposal the only 
 field within three miles that is to be let in these parts.” 
 
 “ The drove can pe gang two, three, four miles very 
 pratty weel indeed — ” said the cautious Highlander ; 
 “ put what would his honour pe axing for the peasts pe 
 the head, if she was to tak the park for twa or three 
 days ?” 
 
 “ We wont differ, Sawney, if you let me have sixstots 
 for winterers, in the way of reason.” 
 
 “ And which peasts wad your honour pe for having?” 
 
 “ Why — let me see — the two black — the dun one — 
 yon doddy — him with the twisted horn— the brock it' — 
 How much by the head ?” 
 
 “ Ah,” said Robin, “ your honour is a shudge — a real 
 shudge — I couldna have set off the pest six peasts petter 
 myself, me that ken them as if they were my pairns, puir 
 things.” 
 
 “ Well, how much per head, Sawney,” continued Mr. 
 Ireby. 
 
 “ It was high markets at Doune and Falkirk,” answer- 
 ed Robin. 
 
 iVnd thus the conversation proceeded, until they had 
 agreed on the prix juste for the bullocks, the Squire 
 throwing in the temporary accommodation of the enclos- 
 ure for the cattle into the boot, and Robin making, as he 
 thought, a very good bargain, providing the grass was but 
 tolerable. The Squire walked his pony alongside of the 
 drove, partly to show him the way, and see him put into 
 possession of the field, and partly to learn the latest 
 news of the northern markets. 
 
 They arrived at the field, and the pasture seemed ex- 
 cellent. But what was their surprise when they saw the 
 bailiff quietly inducting the cattle of Harry Wakefield into 
 the grassy Goshen which had just been assigned to those 
 
179 
 
 THE CANONGATE. 
 
 of Robin Oig M'Combich by the proprietor himself. 
 Squire Ireby set spurs to his horse, clashed up to his ser- 
 vant, and learning what had passed between the parties, 
 briefly informed the English drover that his bailiff had let 
 the ground without his authority, and that he might seek 
 grass for his cattle wherever he would, since he was to get 
 none there. At the same time he rebuked his servant 
 severely for having transgressed his commands, and or- 
 dered him instantly to assist in ejecting the hungry and 
 weary cattle of Harry AVakefield, which were just begin- 
 ning to enjoy a meal of unusual plenty, and to introduce 
 those of his comrade, whom the English drover now be- 
 gan to consider as a rival. 
 
 The feelings which arose in Wakefield’s mind would 
 have induced him to resist Mr. Ireby’s decision ; but every 
 Englishman has a tolerably accurate sense of law and 
 justice, and John Fleecebumpkin, the bailiff, having ac- 
 knowledged that he had exceeded his commission, Wake- 
 field saw nothing else for it than to collect his hungry and 
 disappointed charge, and drive them on to seek quarters 
 elsewhere. Robin Oig saw what had happened with re- 
 gret, and hastened to offer to his English friend to share 
 with him the disputed possession. But Wakefield's pride 
 was severely hurt, and he answered disdainfully, “ Take 
 it all, man — take it all — never make two bites of a cherry 
 — thou canst talk over the gentry, and blear a plain man’s 
 eye — Out upon you, man — I would not kiss any man’s 
 dirty latchels for leave to bake in his oven.” 
 
 Robin Oig, sorry but not surprised at his comrade’s 
 displeasure, hastened to entreat his friend to wait but an 
 hour till he had gone to the Squire’s house to receive pay- 
 ment for the cattle he had sold, and he would come back 
 and help him to drive the cattle into some convenient 
 place of rest, and explain to him the whole mistake they 
 had both of them fallen into. But the Englishman con- 
 tinued indignant: “ Thou hast been selling, hast thou? 
 Ay, ay — thou is a cunning lad for kenning the hours of 
 bargaining. Go to the devil with thyself, for l will ne’er 
 
180 
 
 CHRONICLES OF 
 
 see thy fause loon’s visage again — thou should be ashamed 
 to look me in the face.” 
 
 “ I am ashamed to look no man in the face,” said 
 Robin Oig, something moved ; “ and, moreover, 1 will 
 look you in the face this blessed day, if you will bide at 
 the Clachan down yonder.” 
 
 “ Mayhap you had as well keep away,” said his com- 
 rade ; and turning his back on his former friend, he col- 
 lected his unwilling associates, assisted by the bailiff, who 
 took some real and some affected interest in seeing Wake- 
 field accommodated. 
 
 After spending some time in negotiating with more than 
 one of the neighbouring farmers, who could not, or would 
 not, afford the accommodation desired, Henry Wakefield 
 at last, and in his necessity, accomplished his point by 
 means of the landlord of the alehouse at which Robin Oig 
 and he had agreed to pass the night, when they first sep- 
 arated from each other. Mine host was content to let 
 him turn his cattle on a piece of barren moor, at a price 
 little less than the bailiff had asked for the disputed en- 
 closure ; and the wretchedness of the pasture, as well as 
 the price paid for it, were set down as exaggerations of 
 the breach of faith and friendship of his Scottish crony. 
 This turn of Wakefield’s passions was encouraged by the 
 bailiff, (who had his own reasons for being offended 
 against poor Robin, as having been the unwitting cause 
 of his falling into disgrace with his master,) as well as by 
 the innkeeper, and two or three chance guests, who sooth- 
 ed the drover in his resentment against his quondam as- 
 sociate, — some from the ancient grudge against the Scots, 
 which, when it exists anywhere, is to be found lurking in 
 the Border counties, and some from the general love of 
 mischief, which characterizes mankind in all ranks of life, 
 to the honour of Adam’s children be it spoken. Good 
 John Barleycorn also, who always heightens and exagge- 
 rates the prevailing passions, be they angry or kindly, was 
 not wanting in his offices on this occasion ; and confusion 
 to false friends and hard masters, was pledged in more 
 than one tankard. 
 
THE CANONGATE. 
 
 181 
 
 In the meanwhile Mr. Ireby found some amusement 
 in detaining the northern drover at his ancient ball. He 
 caused a cold round of beef to be placed before the Scot 
 in the butler’s pantry, together with a foaming tankard of 
 home-brewed, and took pleasure in seeing the hearty ap- 
 petite with which these unwonted edibles were discussed 
 by Robin Oig M‘Combich. The Squire himself lighting 
 his pipe, compounded between his patrician dignity and 
 his love of agricultural gossip, by walking up and down 
 while he conversed with his guest. 
 
 “ I passed another drove,” said the Squire, “ with one 
 of your countrymen behind them — they were something 
 less beasts than your drove, doddies most of them — a big 
 man was with them — none of your kilts though, but a de- 
 cent pair of breeches — D’ye know who he may be 9” 
 
 “ Hout ay — that might, could, and would pe Hughie 
 Morrison — 1 didna think he could hae peen sae weel up. 
 He has made a day on us ; put his Argyleshires will have 
 wearied shanks. How far was he pehind 
 
 “ 1 think about six or seven miles,” answered the 
 Squire, “ for I passed them at the Christenburv Cragg, 
 and I overtook you at the Hollan Bush. If his beasts be 
 leg-weary, he will be maybe selling bargains.” 
 
 u Na, na, Hughie Morrison is no the man for pargains 
 — ye maun come to some Highland body like Robin Oig 
 hersell for the like of these — put I maun pe wishing you 
 goot night, and twenty of them let alane ane, and I maun 
 down to the Clachan to see if the lad Henry Waakfelt is 
 out of his humdudgeons yet.” 
 
 The party at the alehouse were still in full talk, and the 
 treachery of Robin Oig still the theme of conversation, 
 when the supposed culprit entered the apartment. His 
 arrival, as usually happens in such a case, put an instant 
 stop to the discussion of which he had furnished the sub- 
 ject, and he was received by the company assembled with 
 that chilling silence, which, more than a thousand excla- 
 mations, tells an intruder that he is unwelcome. Sur- 
 prised and offended, but not appalled by the reception 
 16 VOL. i. 
 
182 
 
 CHRONICLES OF 
 
 which he experienced, Robin entered with an undaunted 
 and even a haughty air, attempted no greeting as he saw 
 he was received with none, and placed himself by the side 
 of the fire, a little apart from a table, at which Harry 
 Wakefield, the bailiff, and two or three other persons, were 
 sealed. The ample Cumbrian kitchen would have af- 
 forded plenty of room even for a larger separation. 
 
 Robin, thus seated, proceeded to light his pipe, and 
 call for a pint of twopenny. 
 
 “ We have no twopence ale,” ansvvered Ralph Heskett 
 the landlord ; “ but as thou find’st thy own tobacco, it’s 
 like thou may’st find thy own liquor too — it’s the wont of 
 thy country, 1 wot.” 
 
 “ Shame, goodman,” said the landlady, a blithe bustling 
 housewife, hastening herself to supply the guest with 
 liquor — a Thou knowest well enow what the strange man 
 wants, and it’s thy trade to be civil, man. Thou shouldst 
 know, that if the Scot likes a small pot, he pays a sure 
 penny.” 
 
 Without taking any notice of this nuptial dialogue, the 
 Highlander took the flagon in his hand, and addressing 
 the company generally, drank the interesting toast of 
 u Good markets,” to the party assembled. 
 
 “ The better that the wind blew fewer dealers from 
 the north,” said one of the farmers, “ and fewer High- 
 land runts to eat up the English meadows.” 
 
 “ Saul of my pody, put you are wrang there, my 
 friend,” answered Robin, with composure ; “ it is your 
 fat Englishmen that eat up our Scots cattle, puir things.” 
 
 “ I wish there was a sumrnat to eat up their drovers,” 
 said another ; “ a plain Englishman canna make bread 
 within a kenning of them.” 
 
 “ Or an honest servant keep his master’s favour, but 
 they will come sliding in between him and the sunshine,” 
 said the bailiff. 
 
 “ If these pe jokes,” said Robin Oig, with the same 
 composure, “ there is ower mony jokes upon one man.” 
 
 “ It is no joke, but downright earnest,” said the bailiff. 
 “ Harkye, Mr. Robin Ogg, or whatever is your name, it’s 
 
TIIE CANONGATE. 
 
 183 
 
 right we should tell you that we are all of one opinion, 
 and that is, that you, Mr. Robin Ogg, have behaved to 
 our friend Mr. Harry Wakefield here, like a raff and a 
 blackguard. 5 ’ 
 
 “ Nae doubt, nae doubt,” answered Robin, with great 
 composure ; “ and you are a set of very feeling judges, 
 for whose prains or pehaviour I wad not gie a pinch of 
 sneeshing. If Mr. Harry Waakfelt kens where he is 
 vyranged, he kens where he may be lighted.” 
 
 “ He speaks truth,” said Wakefield, who had listened 
 to what passed, divided between the offence which he 
 had taken at Robin’s late behaviour, and the revival of 
 his habitual habits of friendship. 
 
 He now rose, and went towards Robin, who got up from 
 his seat as he approached, and held out his hand. 
 
 “ That’s riglit, Harry — go it — serve him out,” re- 
 sounded on all sides — “ tip him the nailer — show him 
 the mill.” 
 
 “ Hold your peace all of you, and be ,” said 
 
 Wakefield ; and then addressing his comrade, he took 
 him by the extended hand, with something alike of respect 
 and defiance. “ Robin,” he said, “ thou hast used me 
 ill enough this day ; but if you mean, like a frank fellow, 
 to shake hands, and take a tussle for love on the sod, why 
 I’ll forgie thee, man, and we shall be better friends than 
 ever.” 
 
 “ And would it not pe petter to be cood friends without 
 more of the matter 9” said Robin ; “ we will be much 
 petter friendships with our panes hale than proken.” 
 
 Harry Wakefield dropped the hand of his friend, or 
 rather threw it from him. 
 
 “ 1 did not think I had been keeping company for three 
 years with a coward.” 
 
 “ Coward pelongs to none of my name,” said Robin, 
 whose eyes began to kindle, but keeping the command of 
 his tempe-r. “ It was no coward’s legs or hands, Harry 
 Waakfelt, that drew you out of the fords of Frew, when 
 you was drifting ou'er the plack rock, and every eel in the 
 river expected his share of you.” 
 
184 
 
 CHRONICLES OF 
 
 “ And that is true enough, too,” said the Englishman, 
 struck by the appeal. 
 
 “ Adzooks !” exclaimed the bailiff — “ sure Harry 
 Wakefield, the nattiest lad at Whitson Tryste, Wooler 
 Fair, Carlisle Sands, or Stagshavv Bank, is not going to 
 show white feather ? Ah, this comes of living so long 
 with kilts and bonnets — men forget the use of their 
 daddies.” 
 
 “ I may teach you, Master Fleecebumpkin, that I have 
 not lost the use of mine,” said Wakefield, and then went 
 on. “ This will never do, Robin. We must have a turn- 
 up, or we shall be the talk of the country side. I’ll be 
 
 d d if I hurt thee — I’ll put on the gloves gin thou like. 
 
 Come, stand forward like a man.” 
 
 “ To pe peaten like a dog,” said Robin ; “ is there 
 any reason in that If you think I have done you wrong, 
 I’ll go before your shudge, though I neither know his law 
 nor his language.” 
 
 A general cry of “ No, no— no law, no lawyer ! a 
 bellyful and be friends,” was echoed by the bystanders. 
 
 “ But,” continued Robin, “ if I am to fight, 1 have no 
 skill to fight like a jackanapes, with hands and nails.’* 
 
 “ How would you fight then 9” said his antagonist ; 
 “ though l am thinking it would be hard to bring you to 
 the scratch anyhow.” 
 
 “ I would fight with proadswords, and sink point on the 
 first plood drawn- like a gentlemans.” 
 
 A loud shout of laughter followed the proposal, which 
 indeed had rather escaped from poor Robin’s swelling 
 heart, than been the dictates of his sober judgment. 
 
 “ Gentleman, quotha !” was echoed on all sides, with 
 a shout of unextinguishable laughter ; “ a very pretty 
 gentleman, God wot — Canst get two swords for the gen- 
 tleman to fight with, Ralph Heskelt ?” 
 
 “ No, but I can send to the armoury at Carlisle, and 
 lend them two forks, to be making shift with in the mean- 
 time.” 
 
THE CANON GATE. 
 
 185 
 
 “ Tush, man,” said another, “ the bonny Scots come 
 into the world with the blue bonnet on their heads, and 
 dirk and pistol at their belt.” 
 
 “ Best send post,” said Mr. Fleecebumpkin, “ to the 
 Squire of Corby Castle, to come and stand second to the 
 gentleman .” 
 
 In the midst of this torrent of general ridicule, the 
 Highlander instinctively griped beneath the folds of his 
 plaid. 
 
 “ But it’s better not,” he said in his own language. 
 “ A hundred curses on the swine-eaters, who know neither 
 decency nor civility !” 
 
 “ Make room, the pack of you,” he said, advancing to 
 the door. 
 
 But his former friend interposed his sturdy bulk, and 
 opposed his leaving the house ; and when Robin Oig at- 
 tempted to make his way by force, he hit him down on 
 the floor, with as much ease as a boy bowls down a 
 nine-pin. 
 
 “ A ring, a ring !” was now shouted, until the dark 
 rafters, and the hams that hung on them, trembled again, 
 and the very platters on the bink clattered against each 
 other. “ Well done, Harry” — “ Give it him home, Har- 
 ry” — “ Take care of him now — he sees his own blood !” 
 
 Such were the exclamations, while the Highlander, 
 starting from the ground, all his coldness and caution lost 
 in frantic rage, sprung at his antagonist with the fury, the 
 activity, and the vindictive purpose, of an incensed tiger- 
 cat. But when could rage encounter science and tem- 
 per 9 Robin Oig again went down in the unequal contest ; 
 and as the blow was necessarily a severe one, he lay mo- 
 tionless on the floor of the kitchen. The landlady ran 
 to offer some aid, but Mr. Fleecebumpkin would not per- 
 mit her to approach. 
 
 “ Let him alone,” he said, “ he will come to within 
 time, and come up to the scratch again. He has not got 
 half his broth yet.’* 
 
 16* VOL. i. 
 
186 
 
 CHRONICLES OE 
 
 “ He has got all I mean to give him, though,” said his 
 antagonist, whose heart began to relent towards his old 
 associate ; “ and I would- rather by half give the rest to 
 yourself, Mr. Fleecebumpkin, for you pretend to know a 
 thing or two, and Robin had not art enough even to peel 
 before setting to, but fought with his plaid dangling about 
 him. — Stand up, Robin, my man ! all friends now ; and 
 let me hear the man that will speak a word against you, 
 or your country, for your sake.” 
 
 Robin Oig was still under the dominion of his passion, 
 and eager to renew the onset ; but being withheld on the 
 one side by the peace-making Dame Heskett, and on the 
 other, aware that Wakefield no longer meant to renew the 
 combat, his fury sunk into gloomy sullenness. 
 
 “ Come, come, never grudge so much at it, man,” said 
 the brave-spirited Englishman, with the placability of his 
 country, “ shake hands, and we will be better friends 
 than ever.” 
 
 “ Friends !” exclaimed Robin Oig with strong empha- 
 sis — “ friends !— Never. Look to yourself, Harry W.aak- 
 felt ” 
 
 “ Then the curse of Cromwell on your proud Scots 
 stomach, as the man says in the play, and you may do 
 your worst, and be d ; for one man can say noth- 
 
 ing more to another after a tussle, than that he is sorry 
 for it.” 
 
 On these terms the friends parted ; Robin Oig drew 
 out, in silence, a piece of money, threw it on the table, 
 and then left the alehouse. But turning at the door, he 
 shook his hand at Wakefield, pointing with his fore-finger 
 upwards, in a manner which might imply either a threat 
 or a caution. He then disappeared in the moonlight. 
 
 Some words passed after his departure, between the 
 bailiff, who piqued himself on being a little of a bully, and 
 Harry Wakefield, who, with generous inconsistency, was> 
 now not indisposed to begin a new combat in defence of 
 Robin Oig’s reputation, “ although he could not use his 
 daddies like an Englishman, as it did not come natural to 
 him.” But Dame Heskett prevented this second quarrel 
 
THE CANONGATE. 
 
 187 
 
 from coming to a head by her peremptory interference. 
 44 There should be no more fighting in her house,” she 
 said ; 44 there had been too much already. — And you, 
 Mr. Wakefield, may live to learn,” she added, “ what it 
 is to make a deadly enemy out of a good friend.” 
 
 41 Pshaw, dame ! Robin Oig is an honest fellow, and 
 will never keep malice.” 
 
 64 Do not trust to that — you do not know the dour tem- 
 per of the Scotch, though you have dealt with them so 
 often. 1 have a right to know them, my mother being a 
 Scot.” 
 
 44 And so is well seen on her daughter,” said Ralph 
 Heskett. 
 
 This nuptial sarcasm gave the discourse another turn ; 
 fresh customers entered the tap-room or kitchen, and 
 others left it. The conversation turned on the expected 
 markets, and the report of prices from different parts both 
 of Scotland and England — treaties were commenced, and 
 Harry Wakefield was lucky enough to find a chap for a 
 part of his drove, and at a very considerable profit ; an 
 event of consequence more than sufficient to blot out all 
 remembrances of the unpleasant scuffle in the earlier part 
 of the day. Rut there remained one party from whose 
 mind that recollection could not have been wiped away 
 by possession of every head of cattle betwixt Esk and 
 Eden. 
 
 This was Robin Oig M‘Combich. — 44 That I should 
 have had no weapon,” he said, 44 and for the first time in 
 my life ! — Blighted be the tongue that bids the Highlander 
 part with the dirk— the dirk — ha ! the English blood ! — 
 My muhme’s word — -when did her word fall to the 
 ground 7” 
 
 The recollection of the fatal prophecy confirmed the 
 deadly intention which instantly sprang up in his mind. 
 
 44 Ha ! Morrison cannot be many miles behind ; and if 
 it were an hundred, what then !” 
 
 His impetuous spirit had now a fixed purpose and mo- 
 tive of action, and he turned the light foot of his country 
 towards the wilds, through which he knew, by Mr. lreby’s 
 
188 
 
 CHRONICLES OF 
 
 report, that Morrison was advancing. His mind was 
 wholly engrossed by the sense of injury — injury sustain- 
 ed from a friend ; and by the desire of vengeance on one 
 whom he now accounted his most bitter enemy. The 
 treasured ideas of self-importance and self-opinion — of 
 ideal birth and quality, had become more precious to him, 
 (like the hoard to the miser,) because he could only enjoy 
 them in secret. But that hoard was pillaged, the idols 
 which he had secretly worshipped had been desecrated 
 and profaned. Insulted, abused, and beaten, lie was no 
 longer worthy, in his own opinion, of the name he bore, 
 or the lineage which he belonged to — nothing was left to 
 him — nothing but revenge ; and, as the reflection added 
 a galling spur to every step, he determined it should be 
 as sudden and signal as the offence. 
 
 When Robin Oig left the door of the alehouse, seven 
 or eight English miles at least lay betwixt Morrison and 
 him. The advance of the former was slow, limited by 
 the sluggish pace of his cattle ; the last left behind him 
 stubble-field and hedge-row, crag and dark heath, all glit- 
 tering with frost-rhime in the broad November moonlight, 
 at the rate of six miles an hour. And now the distant 
 lowing of Morrison’s cattle is heard ; and now they are 
 seen creeping like moles in size and slowness of motion 
 on the broad face of the moor ; and now he meets them 
 — passes them, and stops their conductor. 
 
 “ May good betide us,” said the Southlands- — “ Is 
 this you, Robin IVKCombich, or your wraith V ’ 
 
 “ It is Robin Oig M^Combich,” answered the High- 
 lander, “ and it is not. — But never mind that, put pe giving 
 me the skene-dbu.” 
 
 “ What ! you are for back to the Highlands — The 
 devil ! — Have you selt all off' before the fair ? This beats 
 all for quick markets.” 
 
 “ I have not sold — 1 am not going north — May pe I 
 will never go north again. — Give me pack my dirk, Hugh 
 Morrison, or there will pe words petween us.” 
 
 “ Indeed, Robin, I’ll be better advised or I gie it back 
 to you — it is a vvanchancy weapon in a Highlandman’s 
 
TIIE CANONGATE. 
 
 189 
 
 hand, and I am thinking you will be about some barns- 
 breaking.” 
 
 “ Prutt, trutt ! let me have my weapon,” said Robin 
 Oig impatiently. 
 
 “ Hooly and fairly,” said his well-meaning friend. 
 “ I’ll tell you what will do better than these dirking do- 
 ings — Ye ken Highlander and Lowlander, and Border- 
 men, are a’ ae man’s bairns when you are over the Scots 
 dyke. See, the Eskdale callants, and fighting Charlie of 
 Liddesdale, and the Lockerby lads, and t lie four Dandies 
 of Lustruther, and a wheen mair grey plaids, are coming 
 up behind ; and if you are wranged, there is the hand of 
 a Manly Morrison, we’ll see you righted, if Carlisle and 
 Stanwix baith took up the feud.” 
 
 “ To tell you the truth,” said Robin Oig, desirous of 
 eluding the suspicions of his friend, “ I have enlisted with 
 a party of the Black Watch, and must march off to-mor- 
 row morning.” 
 
 “ Enlisted ! Were you mad or drunk ? — You must buy 
 yourself off- — I can lend you twenty notes, and twenty to 
 that, if the drove sell.” 
 
 “ 1 thank you — thank ye, Hughie ; but I go with good 
 will the gate that I am going, — so the dirk — the dirk !” 
 
 “ There it is for you then, since less wunna serve. 
 But think on what 1 was saying. — Waes me, it will be 
 sair news in the braes of Balquidder, that Robin Oig 
 M’Combich should have run an ill gate, and ta’en on.” 
 
 “ 111 news in Balquidder, indeed !” echoed poor Rob- 
 in ; “ put Cot speed you, Hughie, and send you good 
 marcats. Ye wdnna meet with Robin Oig again either at 
 tryste or fair.” 
 
 So saying, he shook hastily the hand of his acquaint- 
 ance, and set out in the direction from which he had ad- 
 vanced, with the spirit of his former pace. 
 
 “ There is something wrang with the lad,” muttered 
 the Morrison to himself ; “ but we will maybe see better 
 into it the morn’s morning.” 
 
 But long ere the morning dawned, the catastrophe of 
 our tale had taken place. It was two hours after the 
 
190 
 
 CHRONICLES OF 
 
 affray had happened, and it was totally forgotten by almost 
 every one, when Robin Oig returned to Heskett’s inn. 
 The place was filled at once by various sorts of men, and 
 with noises corresponding to their character. There were 
 the grave, low sounds of men engaged in busy traffic, 
 with the laugh, the song, and the riotous jest of those who 
 had nothing to do but to enjoy themselves. Among the 
 last was Harry Wakefield, who, amidst a grinning group 
 of smock-frocks, hobnailed shoes, and jolly English physi- 
 ognomies, was trolling forth the old ditty, 
 
 11 What though my name be Roger, 
 
 Who drives the plough and cart — r 
 
 when he was interrupted by a well known voice, saying in 
 a high and stern voice, marked by the sharp Highland ac- 
 cent, “ Harry Waakfelt — if you be a man, stand up !” 
 
 “ What is the matter ? — what is it V 9 the guests de- 
 manded of each other. 
 
 “ It is only a d d Scotsman,” said Fleecebumpkin, 
 
 who was by this time very drunk, u whom Harry Wake- 
 field helped to his broth to-day, who is now come to have 
 his cauld kail hett again.” 
 
 “ Harry Waakfelt,” repeated the same ominous sum- 
 mons, “ stand up, if you be a man !” 
 
 There is something in the tone of deep and concen- 
 trated passion, which attracts attention and imposes awe, 
 even by the very sound. The guests shrunk back on 
 every side, and gazed at the Highlander, as he stood in 
 the middle of them, his brows bent, and his features rigid 
 with resolution. 
 
 “ I will stand up with all my heart, Robin, my boy, but 
 it shall be to shake hands with you, and drink down all 
 unkindness. It is not the fault of your heart, man, that 
 you don’t know how to clench your hands.” 
 
 By this time he stood opposite to his antagonist ; his 
 open and unsuspecting look strangely contrasted with the 
 stern purpose, which gleamed wild, dark, and vindictive 
 in the eyes of the Highlander. 
 
THE CANONGATE. 
 
 191 
 
 “ ’Tis not thy fault, man, that, not having the luck 
 to be an Englishman, thou canst not light more than a 
 school-girl.” 
 
 “ 1 can fight,” answered Robin Oig sternly, but calmly, 
 “ and you shall know it. You, Harry Waakfelt, show- 
 ed me to-day how the Saxon churls fight — I show you 
 now how the Highland Dunniewassal fights.” 
 
 He seconded the word with the action, and plunged 
 the dagger, which he’ suddenly displayed, into the broad 
 breast of the English yeoman, with such fatal certainty 
 and force, that the hilt made a hollow sound against the 
 breast-bone, and the double-edged point split the very 
 heart of his victim. Harry Wakefield fell, and expired 
 with a single groan. His assassin next seized the bailiff 
 by the collar, and offered the bloody poniard to his throat, 
 whilst dread and surprise rendered the man incapable of 
 defence. 
 
 “ It were very just to lay you beside him,” he said, 
 “ but the blood of a base pick-thank shall never mix on 
 my father’s dirk, with that of a brave man.” 
 
 As he spoke, he cast the man from him with so much 
 force that he fell on the floor, while Robin, with his 
 other hand, threw the fatal weapon into the blazing turf- 
 fire. 
 
 “ There,” he said, “ take me who likes— and let fire 
 cleanse blood if it can.” 
 
 The pause of astonishment still continuing, Robin Oig 
 asked for a peace-officer, and a constable having stepped 
 out, he surrendered himself to his custody. 
 
 “ A bloody night’s work you have made of it,” said 
 the constable. 
 
 “ Your own fault,” said the Highlander. “ Had 
 you kept his hands off me twa hours since, he would 
 have been now as well and merry as he was twa minutes 
 since.” 
 
 “ It must be sorely answered,” said the peace-officer. 
 
 “ Never you mind that — death pays all debts ; it will 
 pay that too.” 
 
192 
 
 CHRONICLES OF 
 
 The horror of ihe bystanders began now to give way 
 to indignation ; and the sight of a favourite companion 
 murdered in the midst of them, the provocation being, in 
 their opinion, so utterly inadequate to the excess of ven- 
 geance, might have induced them to kill the perpetrator 
 of the deed even upon the very spot. The constable, 
 however, did his duty on this occasion, and with the as- 
 sistance of some of the more reasonable persons present, 
 procured horses to guard the prisoner to Carlisle, to abide 
 his doom at the next assizes. While the escort was pre- 
 paring, the prisoner neither expressed the least interest, 
 nor attempted the slightest reply. Only, before he was 
 carried from the fatal apartment, he desired to look at 
 the dead body, which, raised from the floor, had been 
 deposited upon the large table, (at the head of which 
 Harry Wakefield had presided but a few minutes before, 
 full of life, vigour, and animation,) until the surgeons 
 should examine the mortal wound. The face of the 
 corpse was decently covered with a napkin. To the sur- 
 prise and horror of the bystanders, which displayed itself 
 in a general Ah ! drawn through clenched teeth and half- 
 shut lips, Robin Oig removed the cloth, and gazed with 
 a mournful but steady eye on the lifeless visage, which 
 had been so lately animated, that the smile of good hu- 
 moured confidence in his own strength, of conciliation at 
 once, and contempt towards his enemy, still curled his 
 lip. While those present expected that the wound, which 
 had so lately flooded the apartment with gore, would send 
 forth fresh streams at the touch of the homicide, Robin 
 Oig replaced the covering, with the brief exclamation — 
 “ He was a pretty man !” 
 
 My story is nearly ended. The unfortunate High- 
 lander stood his trial at Carlisle. 1 was myself present, 
 and as a young Scottish lawyer, or barrister at least, and 
 reputed a man of some quality, the politeness of the Sher- 
 iff of Cumberland offered me a place on the bench. The 
 facts of the case were proved in the manner I have related 
 them ; and whatever might be at first the prejudice of 
 the audience against a crime so un-English as that of 
 
TIIE CANONGATE. 
 
 193 
 
 assassination from revenge, yet when the rooted national 
 prejudices of the prisoner had been explained, which 
 made him consider himself as stained with indelible dis- 
 honour, when subjected to personal violence ; when his 
 previous patience, moderation, and endurance, were con- 
 sidered, the generosity of the English audience was in- 
 clined to regard his crime as the wayward aberration of a 
 false idea of honour rather than as flowing from a heart 
 naturally savage, or perverted by habitual vice. 1 shall 
 never forget the charge of the venerable Judge to the 
 jury, although not at that time liable to be much affected 
 either by that which was eloquent or pathetic. 
 
 “ We have had,” he said, “ in t lie previous part of 
 our duty, (alluding to some former trials,) to discuss 
 crimes which infer disgust and abhorrence, while they 
 call down the well-merited vengeance of the law. It is 
 now our still more melancholy duty to apply its salutary 
 though severe enactments to a case of a very singular 
 character, in which the crime (for a crime it is, and a deep 
 one) arose less out of the malevolence of the heart, than 
 the error of the understanding — less from any idea of com- 
 mitting wrong, than from an unhappily perverted notion 
 of that which is right. Here we have two men, highly 
 esteemed, it has been stated, in their rank of life, and at- 
 tached it seems, to each other as friends, one of whose lives 
 has been already sacrificed to a punctilio, and the other is 
 about to prove the vengeance of the offended laws; and 
 yet both may claim our commiseration at least, as men 
 acting in ignorance of each other’s national prejudices, 
 and unhappily misguided rather than voluntarily erring 
 from the path of right conduct. 
 
 “ In the original cause of the misunderstanding, we 
 must in justice give the right to the prisoner at t he bar. 
 He had acquired possession e,f the enclosure, which was 
 the obicc : . of competition, hv a lega I contract until the pro- 
 prietor Ah*. I re by ; am? v«-g ^ accosted w ath reproaches 
 undeserved in thems* !v e doubtless to a tem- 
 per at least suffice lie offered 
 
 17 VOL. ? 
 
194 
 
 CHRONICLES OF 
 
 notwithstanding to yield up half his acquisition, for the 
 sake of peace and good neighbourhood, and his amica- 
 ble proposal was rejected will) scorn. Then follows the 
 scene at Mr. Heskett the publican’s, and you will observe 
 how the stranger was treated by the deceased, and 1 am 
 sorry to observe, by those around, who seem to have 
 urged him in a manner which was aggravating in the 
 highest degree. While he asked for peace and for com- 
 position, and offered submission to a magistrate, or to a 
 mutual arbiter, the prisoner was insulted by a whole com- 
 pany, who seem on this occasion to have forgotten the 
 national maxim of 4 fair play and while attempting to 
 escape from the place in peace, he was intercepted, struck 
 down, and beaten to the effusion of his blood. 
 
 “ Gentlemen of the Jury, it was with some impatience 
 that 1 heard my learned brother, who opened the case for 
 the crown, give an unfavourable turn to the prisoner’s 
 conduct on this occasion. He said the prisoner was 
 afraid to encounter his antagonist in fair fight, or to submit 
 to the laws of the ring ; and that therefore, like a cowardly 
 Italian, he had recourse to his fatal stiletto, to murder the 
 man whom he dared not meet in manly encounter. I 
 observed the prisoner shrink from this part of the accu- 
 sation with the abhorrence natural to a brave man ; and 
 as 1 would wish to make my words impressive, when I 
 point his real crime, I must secure his opinion of my im- 
 partiality, by rebutting every thing that seems to me a 
 false accusation. There can be no doubt that the prisoner 
 is a man of resolution — too much resolution — I wish to 
 Heaven that he had less, or rather that he had had a better 
 education to regulate it. 
 
 “ Gentlemen, as to the laws my brother talks of, they 
 may be known in the Bull-ring, or the Bear-garden, or 
 the Cockpit, but they are not known here. Or, if they 
 should be so far admitted as furnishing a species of proof, 
 that no malice was intended in this sort of combat, from 
 which fatal accidents do sometimes arise, it can only be 
 so admitted when both parties are in pari casu , equally 
 acquainted with, and equally walling to refer themselves to, 
 
TIIE CANON HA 
 
 i 95. 
 
 that species of arbitrement. But will it be contended 
 that a man of superior rank and education is to be sub- 
 jected, or is obliged to subject himself, to this coarse and 
 brutal strife, perhaps in opposition to a younger, stronger, 
 or more skilful opponent? Certainly even the pugilistic 
 code, if founded upon the fair play of Merry Gib Bog- 
 land, as my brother alleges it to be, can contain nothing 
 so preposterous. And, gentlemen of the jury, if the 
 laws would support an English gentleman, wearing, we 
 will suppose, his sword, in defending himself by iorce 
 against a violent personal aggression of the nature offered 
 to this prisoner, they will not less protect a foreigner and 
 a stranger, involved in the same unpleasing circumstances. 
 If, therefore, gentlemen of the jury, when thus pressed 
 by a vis major , the object of obloquy to a whole compa- 
 ny, and of direct violence from one at least, and as he 
 might reasonably apprehend, from more, the panel hail 
 produced the weapon which his countrymen, as we are 
 informed, generally carry about their persons, and the 
 same unhappy circumstance had ensued which you have 
 heard detailed in evidence, I could not in my conscience 
 have asked from you a verdict of murder. The prison- 
 er’s personal defence might indeed, even in that case, 
 have gone more or less beyond the boundary of the 
 Moderamen inculpated tuteled , spoken of by lawyers, but 
 the punishment incurred would have been that of man- 
 slaughter, not of murder. I beg leave to add, that I 
 should have thought this milder species of charge was de- 
 manded in the case supposed, notwithstanding the statute 
 of James I. cap. 8. which takes the case of slaughter by 
 stabbing with a short weapon, even without malice pre- 
 pense, out of the benefit of clergy. For this statute of 
 stabbing, as it is termed, arose out of a temporary cause ; 
 and as t he real guilt is the same, whether the slaughter 
 be committed by the dagger, or by sword or pistol, the 
 benignity of the modem law places them all on the same 
 or nearly the same footing. 
 
 “ But, gentlemen of the jury, the pinch of the case 
 lies in the interval of two hours interposed betwixt the 
 
196 CHRONICLES OF 
 
 reception of the injury and the fatal retaliation. In the 
 heat oi affray and chaude'melee , law, compassionating the 
 infirmities of humanity, makes allowance for the passions 
 which rule such a stormy moment — for the sense of pres- 
 ent pain, for the apprehension of further injury, for the 
 difficulty of ascertaining with due accuracy the precise 
 degree of violence which is necessary to protect the per- 
 son of the individual, without annoying or injuring the 
 assailant more than is absolutely necessary. But the 
 time necessary to walk twelve miles, however speedily 
 performed, was an interval sufficient for the prisoner to 
 have recollected himself ; and the violence with which 
 he carried his purpose into effect, with so many circum- 
 stances of deliberate determination, could neither be in- 
 duced by the passion of anger, nor that of fear. It was 
 the purpose and the act of predetermined revenge, for 
 which law neither can, will, nor ought to have sympathy 
 or allowance. 
 
 “ It is true, we may repeat to ourselves, in alleviation 
 of this poor man’s unhappy action, that his case is a very 
 peculiar one. The country which he inhabits was, in the 
 days of many now alive, inaccessible to the laws, not only 
 of England, which have not even yet penetrated thither, 
 but to those to which our neighbours of Scotland are 
 subjected, and which must be supposed to be, anc! no 
 doubt actually are, founded upon the general principles of 
 justice and equity which pervade every civilized country. 
 Amongst their mountains, as among the North American 
 Indians, the various tribes were wont to make war upon 
 each other, so that each man was obliged to go armed for 
 his own protection, and for the offence of his neighbour. 
 These men, from the ideas which they entertained of 
 their own descent and of their own consequence, regard- 
 ed themselves as so many cavaliers or menrat-arms, rath- 
 er than as the peasantry of a peaceful country. Those 
 laws of the ring, as my brother terms them, were un- 
 known to the race of warlike mountaineers ; that decision 
 of quarrels by no other weapons than thoSe which nature 
 has given every man, must to them have seemed as vulgar 
 
TIIE CAXONGATE. 
 
 197 
 
 and as preposterous as to the Noblesse of France. Re- 
 venge, on the other hand, must have been as familiar to 
 their habits of society as to those of the Cherokees or 
 Mohawks. It is, indeed, as described by Bacon, at bot- 
 tom a kind of wild untutored justice ; for the fear of 
 retaliation must withhold the hands of the oppressor 
 where there is no regular law to check daring violence. 
 But though all this may be granted, and though we may 
 allow that, such having been the case of the Highlands in 
 the days of the prisoner’s fathers, many of the opinions 
 and sentiments must still continue to influence the present 
 generation, it cannot, and ought not, even in this most 
 painful case, to alter the administration of the law 7 , either 
 in your hands, gentlemen of the jury, or in mine. The 
 first object of civilization is to place the general protec- 
 tion of the law, equally administered, in the room of that 
 wild justice, which every man cut and carved for himself, 
 according to the length of his sword and the strength of 
 his arm. The law says to the subjects, with a voice only 
 inferior to that of the Deity, 4 Vengeance is mine.’ The 
 instant that there is time for passion to cool, and reason 
 to interpose, an injured party must become aware, that 
 the law assumes the exclusive cognizance of the right 
 and wrong betwixt the parties, and opposes her inviolable 
 buckler to every attempt of the private party to right 
 himself. I repeat, that this unhappy man ought personal- 
 ly to be the object rather of our pity than our abhorrence, 
 for he failed in his ignorance, and from mistaken notions 
 of honour. But his crime is not the less that of murder, 
 gentlemen, and, in your high and important office, it is 
 your duty so to find. Englishmen have their angry pas- 
 sions as well as Scots; and should this man’s action re- 
 main unpunished, you may unsheath, under various pre- 
 tences, a thousand daggers betwixt the Land’s-end and 
 the Orkneys.” 
 
 The venerable Judge thus ended what, to judge by his 
 apparent emotion, and by the tears which filled his eyes, 
 17 * VOL. i. 
 
198 
 
 CHROxNICLES OF 
 
 was really a painful task. The jury, according to his 
 instructions, brought in a verdict of Guilty ; and Robin 
 Oig M‘Combich, alias M‘Gregor, was sentenced to death, 
 and left for execution, which took place accordingly. He 
 met his fate with great firmness, and acknowledged the 
 justice of his sentence. But he repelled indignantly the 
 observations of those who accused him of attacking an 
 unarmed man. “ I give a life for the life I took,” he 
 said, “ and what can I do more V J 
 
 END OF VOLUME I. 
 

 

 
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